would the memory of both these eminently beautiful sisters soon have perished together, had not certain circumstances arisen which connected the disastrous history of the unfortunate Clarice too intimately with my own fate to render it possible for me to forget the most trivial circumstance which I had ever known as relating to her. Although the time which I spent in the convent was very short, yet to look back upon it, and to view all the workings of my mind during that interval of my life, I could imagine that I had spent more years than in truth I had spent months under that roof.

CHAPTER VII.

TROUBLES FROM WITHOUT.

It was July when I professed; the pestilence had occurred some weeks afterward; it had continued about a month in the house, and from that period till the end of September nothing of any importance happened; but to say how deeply sad we were all this time would be impossible. Our numbers were diminished; several of our leading characters were no more, and it seemed that others were likely to follow, for la Mère Genefride was thoroughly depressed, and the superieure seemed to be quite unable to rouse herself. Indeed, her deportment was so extraordinary after the death of Annunciata, and she was so nervous and irritable, and so filled with superstitious terrors, that it was very evident that she was hardly fit for her station.

In the mean time, the troubles without were scarcely less than those within the house. The spirit of revolution and democracy had taken such hold of the lower classes in St. Siffren, and such fearful tumults were continually excited, that many of the better classes of the people were compelled to quit the town in all haste; and the noise of the uproars within the walls not unseldom reached to the very courts of the convent. Those who have been in the neighbourhood of a town in an uproar of this kind may be aware of the numerous alarming sounds which proceed from it. Sometimes,

for instance, the roar of an intoxicated mob; again, the shrieks of distress, or the acclamations of persons accomplishing mischief; with the tintamarre of drums, bugles, trumpets, bells, hammers, and what not; and now and then the smoke of bonfires, and the sulphurous odour of rockets and wheels, and other fireworks.

There are no creatures on earth so timid as nuns ; and when any of these symptoms of disorder reached our senses, to see how we all herded together, like frightened deer, and how miserably helpless we all looked, would have excited merriment in the breast of any one who did not properly consider that our situation was really quite as pitiable as it appeared to be.

It was one morning, after a night in which our quiet had been more than usually disturbed, that my friend Madame Verani appeared at the gate of the convent, earnestly requesting to see me and the superieure. She was evidently in haste, and much agitated. The superieure obeyed the call, taking me with her, and leaning upon my arm, in a state of high nervous excitement, as she descended to the parlour behind the grille. I immediately saw, by the raised colour of my friend, that she was in much perplexity, and she opened the conference by informing us, "That she and Monsieur Verani, with their infant son, were about to leave St. Siffren, where they could not possibly remain in safety many weeks longer; and that they thought it best to go before things came to extremity." She was proceeding, when the superieure, laying her hand on my arm, exclaimed, "Oh, Angelique! what is to become of us!" and then, falling back in her chair, yielded to a violent flood of hysterical tears.

Madame Verani, at the same instant, gave me a significant glance, and I contrived, while seeming to be busy about the superieure, so to edge myself between her and the grate as to receive a packet in my hand, and to convey it into my pocket—for nuns wear pockets, and mine was very convenient to me at this moment. Having effected this purpose, my friend took a hasty leave of us; and as the eyes which had once so sharply watched the novices were closed for ever, I soon found an opportunity to open my packet, Pauline being present.

These communications were of intense interest, both to me and to Pauline. The letters, which were one F 3

It

from Madame Verani to me, another to poor Clarice from her brother, and a third from some relations whom Pauline had in Switzerland, tended all to the same purport. They gave a frightful idea of the state of the country as it regarded politics; and added, that there was a report gone out in the town that a religieuse had been confined twenty years in the dungeons of the convent, and that the magistrates and populace threatened to break in and ascertain the fact for themselves. farther stated, that the situation of the sisters would be horrible indeed, if exposed without protection to the brutality of the infuriated mob; and concluded with an earnest entreaty, backed by every argument which friendship and family love could bring forward, that we, that is, the three sisters Clarice, Pauline, and Angelique (though I should say that these were not the names used in the letters), would be persuaded, should any tumult occur, to tie a knot in our veils, and deliver ourselves up to the guidance of such persons as should claim us under that token of the knotted veil.

"What shall we do?" I said to Pauline.

"Do?" she replied. "Can you hesitate when Providence thus opens the door for us? Shall we not fly from this place of horrors? Oh! that Clarice could be with us. What will her brother feel when he knows that she is no more ?" and we both wept from the idea of what this faithful brother would suffer when told of the dreadful end of his sister-dreadful as to this world, and all worldly considerations.

The question next occurred, shall we endeavour to give any alarm to the abbess? but we were prevented from pursuing this inquiry by another suggestion—is there, or is there not, any person in confinement in the dungeons and may we not hasten the destruction of this miserable individual by this warning? even if we could give it with safety to ourselves. Being restrained by this reflection, we dared not to speak directly on the subject of our communication, though we gave many hints to the mothers and sisters, asking them what they proposed to do, should the convent of St. Siffren be treated like that of St. Claire at Nice?

"If it should be so ordained,” replied la Mère Aymée, "why I will e'en lay me down among the ruins, and there will I lie and give up the spirit: for here have I dwelt through a long life under the protection of the

TROUBLES FROM WITHOUT.

131

Mother of Mercy, and here will I remain; and here will I lay my old bones, while my flesh mingles with the dust of those who are gone before."

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Mother," said Pauline, for we had got her by ourselves, beyond the hearing of the rest of the household," what is to become of Sister Agnace when the dungeons are laid open?" "what do you

66

Agnace!" said the old lady, starting,

know of her?"

"Oh!" said Pauline, "I know all about her: I know her whole history."

"And who told it, daughters ?" she asked.

“That_tongue,” replied Pauline, “which will never move again."

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"Ay!" exclaimed the mother, who, as I before said, was nearly childish, "she knew it all, and it was she who advised that she should be put out of the way. It was a sad business, daughters. The poor thing was so young; she was not more than eighteen: she would not be fifty if she were now living.'

"And she is living, you know, mother," said Pauline. "I cannot say," replied the mother; "I was never in their confidence: but I always understood that she had died some ten years after she had been incarcerated." "Who told you, mother, that she had died?"

"I cannot bear it in mind," she replied; "but it was well known when-but my memory is gone. Did she not die of the pestilence ?"

"When?" asked Pauline.

"Were you not speaking of that poor Clarice ?" returned the mother.

"No," replied Pauline; "of Agnace. Is she dead, or is she still in confinement ?"

"What, in this house!" exclaimed the mother; "Agnace did you say? how should she be living. It was thirty years ago, I tell you.”

"But what did they confine her for ?" asked Pauline. They knew best," returned the old nun. "What

66

am I, that I should judge my superieures. They did as the church directed. Is not our holy mother church infallible?" and she crossed herself, and mumbled a prayer, sinking again into her usual state of quiet imbecility.

"Poor soul! at any rate," remarked Pauline," she is not one of the deceivers; she at least, I trust, is free from this crime."

"Deceivers," I repeated, "your principles are changPauline."

ing,

"It may be so,” she answered; "but this poor Agnace !"

"God only knows," I replied, "but I am weary of all this mummery and mystery. I have lost my confidence in my spiritual guides. I am ready to doubt all religion, and to fancy that it is all made up by ambitious men and women for their own ends."

"What!" said Pauline," have you forgotten Clarice, and all that she said in that awful subterraneous scene? Can you for an instant suppose that there is no reality in that which supported a creature so young, so, weak, so helpless in all appearance, under circumstances of such inconceivable horror as those in which she stood, and where there was no wondering world around to admire her constancy or condemn her obstinacy? Oh! Angelique, there must be more in religion than we have yet learned."

I recollect little more of this conversation. The harrowing scenes which soon followed have effaced the particulars of it from my mind.

It was about four days after this-days in which nothing occurred, as far as I remember, and in which we followed, as usual, our dull round of formalities-when, being in the garden with Pauline soon after nones, and being deeply engaged in conversing upon the extraordinary purport of the letters which had been brought to me by Madame Verani, we were startled, during a pause of our discourse, by a sort of low rushing sound, resembling, more nearly than any thing else I can conceive, the breaking of a dam at a very great distance, and the consequent bursting of some torrent.

"Hark!" exclaimed Pauline.

The rushing sound continued, hardly becoming more distinct or audible.

"It is the wind," I said: for although the day was clear, there was a considerable agitation caused by the air among the higher branches of the cedars.

"No," said Pauline, "no, it is not the wind ;" and she looked terrified.

"Is it a mountain torrent ?" I said; "if so, we should see the brook swell presently" (I have before mentioned that a stream ran from the hills through the convent garden); and we immediately walked towards the