THE MYSTERIES OF PARIS.
147
me 'I assure you, my Lord, the Princess Amelia is out
of danger; a simple cordial which Dr. David has given
her has restored her strength.'
"I could not doubt what the abbess affirmed; I
believed her, and awaited intelligence from my daugh-
ter with sad impatience                         _
"At the end ot a quarter of an hour David returned.
Thanks to God, she was better; and she had desired to
continue her watching and prayers in the church, con-
senting only to kneel upon a cushion. And as I resisted,
and was indignant that the superior should have
granted her request, adding that I formally opposed
myself to it, he replied to me that it would have been
dangerous to contradict the wishes of my daughter at
a time when she was under the influence of a strong
nervous emotion; and, besides, he had agreed with the
Princess Juliana that the poor child should quit the
church at the hour of matins to take a little repose,
and prepare for the ceremony.
" ' She is now in church, then?' said I to him.
" ' Yes, my Lord, but in half an hour she will have
quitted it.'
" I caused myself to be conducted to the north
gallery, from which the whole choir of the church can
be seen.
" There, in the midst of the darkness of this vast
church, only illuminated by the pale light of the lamp
fro.nthe chancel, I saw her near the grating on her
knees, her hands joined, and praying with fervor.
" I also knelt, and thought of my child.
" Three o'clock struck; two sisters who were seated,
but who had not moved their eyes from her, went and
whispered to her. In a few moments she made a sign,
got up, and crossed the church with a firm step—al-
though, my friend, when she passed under the lamp,
her countenance appeared to me as white as the long
veil which floa ted around her.
" I also went out of the gallery, intending at first to
go to meet her, but I feared a new emotion would pre-
vent her from taking a few moments' repose. I s.ent
David to learn how she was: he came back to tell me
she felt better, and intended to try to sleep a little.
" I remain at the abbey, for the ceremony which will
take place to-morrow.
" I think now, my friend, it is useless to send you
this incomplete letter. I shall finish it to-morrow by
relating the events of that sad day.
"Until then farewell, my friend. I am worn out with
grief.   Pity me."
Chapter Last—The Thirteenth of January.
Ilo&olrihe to Clemenee.
"Thirteenth   of   January — an  anniversary now
doubly dreadful ! ! 1
" My friend, we are losing her forever!
" All is finished—all!
" Listen to the story.
"Itis, then, true, there is an atrocious voluptuous-
ness in relating a horrible grief.
" Yesterday 1 bewailed the chance which retained
you away from me. To-day, Clemenee, I congratulate
myself that you are not here; you would suffer too
much.
" This morning—I had hardly slept through the night
—I was awakened by the sound of the bells; I groaned
witli terror; it seemed to me funereal, a funeral knell.
" In fact, my daughter is dead to us—dead: do you
hear, Clemenee, from this day you must begin to wear
mourning for her in your heart—in your heart, so filled
with maternal affection for her.
"Is our child buried under the marble of a tomb
or under the vaults of a cloister—for us what is the
difference?
" From this day, do you understand, Clemenee, we
must regard her as dead. Besides, she is so very weak;
her health, impaired by so much sorrow, by so many
shocks, is so feeble. Why not that other death, still
more complete?   Fate is not weary.
" And then, besides, after my L-tterof yesterday, you
may understand that it would perhaps be more happy
for her if she were dead.
" Dead! These four letters have a singular appear-
ance, do you not think so? when one writes them in
reference to an idolized daughter, a daughter so fair,
so charming, of such angelic goodness, scarcely
eighteen, and dead to the world !
"Indeed, for us and for her, why vegetate in suffer-
ing in the gloomy tranquility of this cloister? Of what
importance that she lives, if she is lost tous—she might
have loved life so much—what a fatality has attended
her!
" What I am saying is horrible ; there is a barbarous
egotism in paterrial love.
" At noon her profession took place with solemn
pomp.
"Hidden behind the curtains of our gallery, I was
present at it.
" I felt, over again, but with still more intensity, all
those poignant emotions which we suffered at her
novitiate.
" A singular thing, she is adored: it is generally be-
lieved that she is drawn towards a religious life by an
irresistible vocation; her profession might be looked
upon as a happy event for her, and yet, on the con-
trary, an overpowering sadness weighs down the whole
assembly.                                                         "
"At the bottom of the church, among the people, I
saw two under-officers of my guard, two old and rude
soldiers, hold down their heads and weep.
" There seemed to be in the act a sad presentiment.
If there was foundation for it, it has been but half
realized.*
" The profession terminated, our child was brought
back into the hall of the chapter, where the nomination
of the new abbess was to take place.
- " Thanks to my privilege as sovereign, I went into
this hall to await the return of Fleur de Marie.
" She soon entered.
" Her emotion, her weakness was so great, that two
sisters supported her.
" I was alarmed, less even by her paleness and the
deep alteration of her features than by the expression
of her smile : it seemed to me marked by a sort of secret
satisfaction.
" Clemenee, I say it to you, perhaps soon we shall
need all our courage—much courage—I feel, so to speak,
urithin me that our child is struck with death !
" After all, her life would be so unhappy. Here is
the second time that, in thinking the death of my
daughter possible, I have said that death would put» an
end to her cruel existence. This idea is a horrible
symptom ; but if sorrow must strike us, it is better to
be prepared, is it not, Clemenee?
" To prepare one's self for such a misfortune is to
taste Uttle by little beforehand that slow anguish—it is
an unheard-of refinement of grief. It is a thousand
times more dreadful than to have the blow fall unex-
pectedly; at least the stupor, the annihilation would
spare one a part of this cutting anguish.
" But the customs of compassion prescribe to us a
preparation. Probably I should never act otherwise
myself, my poor friend, if I had to acquaint you with
the sad event of which I speak to you. Thus be alarm-
ed, if you observe that I speak to you of her with the
delicacy, the caution of desperate sadness, after hav-
ing announced to you that I do not feel serious inquie-
tude respecting her health.
" Yes, be alarmed, if I speak to you as I am writing
now, for though I left her, to finish this letter, an hour
ago, in a tolerably calm state, I repeat it to you, Clém-
ence, I seem to feel within me that she suffers more
than she appears to do. Heaven grant that I deceive
myself, and that I take for presentments the despairing
sadness which this melancholy ceremony inspires.
" Fleur de Marie then entered the large hall of the
chapel.
" All the stalls were occupied by the nuns.
" She went modestly to take the lowest place on the
left, supporting herself on the arm of one of the sis-
ters, for she still seemed very w-eak.
"At the upper end of the'hail the Princess Julianna
was seated, the grand-prioress beside her; on the other
hand a second dignitary, holding in her hand the golden
cross, the symbol of the authority of tbe abbess.
. " A profound silence prevailed. The princess arose,
took her cross in her hand, and said, with a serious
tone and an expression of much emotion:
" ' My dear daughters, my great age obliges me to
confide to younger hands this emblem of my spiritual
power,'and she showed her cross. 'lam authorized
to do it by a bull of our holy father; I will present,
then, to the benediction of my* Lord Archbishop of Op-
penheim, and to the approbation of his royal highness,
the grand-duke, our sovereign, and to yours, my dear
daughters, the one of your number whom you have des-
ignated to succeed me. Our grand-prioress will make
known to you the result of the election, and to the per-
son whom you shall have elected I will deliver up my
cross and ring.'
"I never moved my eyes from my daughter.. Stand-
ing in her stall, her two hands crossed on her bosom,
her eyes cast down, half enveloped in her white veil,
and the long descending folds of her black robe, she
remained immovable and thoughtful; she had never
for a moment supposed that she could be chosen : her
elevation had been only confided to me by the abbess.
" The grand prioress took a register and read:
" ' Each of our dear sisters having been, according to
rule, invited, eight days since, to place their votes in
the hands of our holy mother, and mutually to keep
secret their choice until this moment, in the name of
our holy mother, I declare, that one of you, my dear
sisters, has, by her exemplary piety, by her evangelical
virtues, merited the unanimous suffrage of the com-
munity; and this is our Sister Amelia, during her life-
time the most high and puissant Princess of Gerol-
stein.'
" At these .words, a sort of murmur of sweet surprise
and happy satisfaction passed round the hall; the looks
of all the nuns were fixed upon my daughter, with an
expression of tender sympathy. Notwithstanding my
all-engrossing anxieties, I was myself deeply moved
with this nomination, whieh, made separately and
secretly, offered, nevertheless, a touching unanimity.
" Fleur de Marie, astounded, became stiU more pale;
her knees trembled so much that she was obliged to
support herself with one hand on the side of the stall.
"The abbess spoke again, with a very  clear, but
grave voice:
" ' My dear daughters, is it indeed Sister Amelia
whom you consider most worthy and most deserving of
all of you? Is it indeed she whom you acknowledge
as your spiritual superior? Let each of you in turn
answer me, my dear daughters.'
" And each nun answered, in a loud1 tone:
" ' I have voluntarily and freely chosen, and I do
choose Sister Amelia for my holy mother and
superior.'
" Overpowered with an inexpressible emotion, my
poor child fed on her knees, joined her hands, and so
remained till every vote was given.
" Then the abbess, placing the cross and ring in the
hands of the grand prioress, advanced towards my
daughter, to take her by the hand and lead her to the
seat of the abbess.
" My friend, my tender friend, I have interrupted
myself a moment. I must take courage and finish the
relation of this "heart-rending scene.
"'Raise yourself, my dear daughter,' said the ab-
bess to her: 'come to take the place which belongs to
you; your evangelical virtues, and not your rank, have
gained it for you.'
" Saying these words, the venerable princess bent
towards my daughter to assist her to rise.
" Fleur de Marie took a few trembling steps, then
arriving in the middle of the hall of the chapter, she
stopped and said, with a voice the calmness and firm-
ness of which astonished me:
" 'Pardon me, Holy Mother, I would speak to my sis-
ters.'
" ' Ascend first, my dear daughter, your seat as ab-
bess,'sard the princess; 'it is from thence that you
must let them hear your voice.'
" ' That place, Holy Mother, cannot be mine,' replied
Fleur de Marie, with a low and trembling voice.
" ' What do you say, my dear daughter?'
" ' Such a high dignity is not made for me, Holy-
Mother.'
' ' ' But the voices of all your sisters call you to it. '
" ' Permit me, Holy Mother, to make here on my
knees a solemn confession ; my sisters will see, and you
also. Holy Mother, that the most humble condition is
not humble enough for me,'
"'Your modesty misleads you, my dear daughter,'
said the superior with kindness, believing, in fact, that
the unfortunate child was yielding to a feeling of exag-
gerated modesty; but I—I divined those confessions
which Fleur de Marie was about to make. Seized with
horror, I cried out with a supplicating voice:
" ' My child, I conjure you-----'
"At these words, to tell you, my friend, all that I read
in the profound look which Fleur de Marie cast upon
me, would be impossible. As you will see directly, she
had understood me—yes, she had understood that I
should partake in the shame of this horrible revela-
tion; she understood that, after such a revelation, I
might be accused of falsehood, for I had always left it
to be believed that Fleur de Marie had never left her
mother.
"At  this thought the   poor child believed   herself ¦
guilty of the blackest ingratitude towards me. She had
not strength to go on—she was silent, and held down
her head from exhaustion.
" 'Yet once again, my dear daughter,' resumed the
abbess, ' your modesty deceives you ; the unanimity of
your sisters' choice proves to you how worthy you are
to take my place. If you have taken part in the pleas-
ures of the world, your renouncing these pleasures is
but tlie more meritorious. It is not her Royal High-
ness Princess Amelia who is chosen—it is Sister Amelia.
For us, your life began when you entered tin house of
tlie Lord, and it is this exariiple and holy life which
we recompense. I say to you, moreover, my dear
daughter, that if before entering this retreat your life
had been as guilty as it has been, on the contrary, pure
and praiseworthy, that the angelic virtues of which
you have given us the example since your abode here
would expiate and redeem, in the eyes of the Lord,
any past life, however guilty it may have been. After
this, my daughter, judge if'your modesty ought not to
be assured.'
" The words of the abbess were the more precious
to Fleur de Marie, in as much as she believed the past
ineffaceable. Unfortunately, this scene had deeply
distressed her, and though she affected calmness and
firmness, itseemed to methat her countenance changed
in an alarming manner. Twice she groaned as she
passed her poor emaciated hand over her forehead.
" ' I think I have convinced you, my dear daughter.'
resumed the Princess Juliana, 'and you would not
cause your sisters a severe pain by refusing this mark
of their confidence and their affection."
"'No, holy mother,' said she, with an expression
which struck me, and with a voice becoming weaker
and weaker, 'I now think I may accept it. But as I
feel greatly fatigued and somewhat ill, if you will per-
mit it, holy mother, the ceremony of my consecration
shall not take place for a few days.'.
" 'It shall be as you desire, my dear daughter; but
while we wait till your office shall be blessed and con-
secrated, take this ring: come to your place; our dear
sisters will render you their homage, according to the
rules. '
"I saw at every moment her emotion increasing,
her countenance changing more and more; finally,
this scene was beyond her strength; she fainted before
the procession of the sisters was finished.
" Judge of my terror; we carried her into the apart-
ment of the abbess.
"David had not left the convent; he hastened and
bestowed the first cares upon her. Oh that he may not
have deceived me; he assures me that this new acci-
dent was caused only by extreme weakness occasioned
by the fastings, the fatigues, and the privation of sleep
which my daughter has imposed upon herself during
her novitiate.
"I believed him, because, in fact, her angelic feat-
ures, though of a frightful paleness, did not betray
any suffering; when she recovered her consciousness, I
was even struck with the serenity which shone on her
forehead. It seems to me that she was concealing the
secret hope of an approaching deliverance.
"The superior having returned to the chapel to close
the session, I remained alone with my daughter.
"' My good father, can you forget my ingratitude?
Can you forget that, at the moment I was about to
make this painful confession, you asked me to spare
you?'
" ' Ohl do not speak of it, I supplicate you.' 'And I
had notdreamed,' continued she, with bitterness, 'that
in saying, in the face of all, from what an abyss of deg-
radation you had drawn me, I was revealing a secret
that you had kept out of tenderness to me; it was to
accuse you publicly, you, my father, of a dissimulation
to which you had resigned yourself only to secure to
me a bri'lliant and honored existence. Oh I can you
pardon me?'
" Instead of answering her, I pressed my lips upon
her forehead; she felt my tears flow.
"After having kissed my hands several times, she
said to me:                                       ,
" ' Now I feel better, my good father, now that I am,
as our rules say, here, and dead to the world. I should
wish to make some dispositions in favortof several per-
sons, but, as all I possess is yours, will you authorize
me, my good father?'
' Can you doubt it? but I beseech you,' said I to her,
'do not indulge these sad thoughts; by-and by you
shall employ yourself in this duty; you have time
enough.'
" 'Undoubtedly, my good father, I have yet much
time to live,' added she, with an accent that, I know not
why, made me shudder. I looked at her more atten-
tively; but no change, in her features justified my un-
easiness. 'Yes, I have much time to live,'resumed
she, ' but I must not occupy myself longer with terres-
trial things, for to-day I renounce all which attached
me to the world. I beseech you, do not refuse me. '
" ' Direct me: I will do everything you wish.'
" ' I should wish that my tender mother would always
keep, in the little back parlor where she usually sits,
my embroidery frame, with the tapestry I have begun
in it."
" Your Wishes shall be fulfilled, my child: your room
has remained exactly as it was the day you left the
palace; for everything belonging to you is an object of
religious worship to us. Clemenee will be deeply
touched at your remembrance of her.'
" 'As to you, my good father, take, I. beg you, my
large ebony chair, in which I have thought, have
dreamed so much.'                                 .
" ' It shall be placed by the side of mine, in my work-
ing cabinet, and I shall see you in it every day, seated
beside me, as you so often used to sit.' Could I tell her
this, and restrain my tears?                             .
" ' Now I should wish to leave some memorials of me
to those who took so much interest in me when I was
unfortunate. To Madame Georges I should like to give
my writing-desk, of which I have lately made use.
Tins gift will be appropriate,' added she, with a sweet
smile, ' for it was she, at the farm who began to teach
me to write. As to the venerable curate of Boqueval,
who instructed me in religion, I destine for him the
beautiful Christ in my oratory.'
" 'Good, my child.'
" ' I should like to send my bandeau of pearls to my
good little Rigolette. It is a simple ornament that she
can wear on her beautiful black hair; and then, if it
were possible, since you know where Martial and La
Louve are, in Algiers, I should wish that this coura-
geous woman.who'saved my life, should have my enam-
eled cross.   These different pledges of remembrance,