Out of the Convent.
"I think you might very well come down to vespers to-night,
_mon enfant_," said Soeur Lucie one evening about a week later.
"To-night!" said Madelon, starting.
"Yes; why not? You are quite well and strong enough now, and
we must set to work again. I think you have been idle long
enough, and we can't begin better than by your coming to
chapel this evening."
Madelon was silent and dismayed. Ever since she had found the
money her project of flight had become a question of time
only, and it was precisely this hour of vespers she had fixed
on as the only one possible for her escape: the nuns would all
be in the chapel, and, once outside the convent, the
increasing darkness would favour her.
"Ah, not to-night, Soeur Lucie, please," she said, in a
faltering voice; "I--I am tired--I have been in the garden all
the afternoon;--that is, I am not tired; but I don't want to
come down to-night."
"Well, I will let you off this one evening," said Soeur Lucie,
good-naturedly; "though you used to be fond of coming to
vespers, and certainly I don't think you can be very tired
with sitting in the garden. However, we must begin work
regularly to-morrow; so you had better go to bed at once, and
get well rested. Good night, _ma petite_."
"Good-night," said Madelon; and then, as Soeur Lucie turned to
leave the room, she felt a sudden pang of self-reproach. She
was deceiving the good-humoured, simple little sister, who had
been kind to her after her own fashion; and she was going
away, and would never see her any more. She thought she would
like to have one more kind word from her, as she could not
wish her good-bye.
"Do you love me, Soeur Lucie?" she said, flinging her arms
round her neck.
"To be sure, _mon enfant_," answers Soeur Lucie, with some
astonishment; then, hastening to add the qualifying clause by
which so many worthy people take care to proclaim that their
love is human, and not divine, "that is, when you are good,
you know, and do what you are told."
"Ah," said Madeleine, relaxing her hold, "then if I were to do
something you thought very naughty, you would not love me any
more?"
"Indeed, I don't know. You are not going to be naughty, I
hope?" answered the nun; "but I can't wait any longer now.
Make haste, and go to bed quietly."
She hurried out of the room as she spoke. Madelon listened
till the sound of her footsteps died away; and then, without a
moment's further pause or hesitation, began pulling together a
few things into a small bundle. She had no time to waste in
vain regrets: what she had to do must be done quickly, or not
at all. A dozen windows overlooked the garden, and presently
the nuns would be returning to their cells, and her chances
would be over. Even now it was possible that one or another
might have been detained from the chapel, but that she must
risk; better that, she thought, than to wait till later, when
a prolonged vigil or a wakeful sister might be the cause of
frustrating all her hopes and plans. She had no fear of her
flight being discovered before the morning. Since her illness
she had always gone to bed early, and Soeur Lucie never did
anything more than put her head in at the door, on her way to
her own room, which was in a different part of the building,
to see that all was dark and quiet; and if Madelon did not
speak, would go away at once, satisfied that she was asleep.
The chapel bell was still ringing as she went swiftly about
her few preparations, but it had ceased by the time the small
bundle was made up, and Madelon, in her hat and cloak, stood
ready to depart. She had laid all her plans in her own mind,
and knew exactly what she meant to do. She had decided that
she would walk to Chaudfontaine; she knew that she had only to
follow the highroad to get there, and the distance she thought
could not be very great, for she remembered having once walked
it with her father years ago. To be sure she had been very
tired, but she had been only a little girl then, and could do
much better now; and it appeared to her this would be simpler
and better than going into Liége to find the railway-station,
of whose situation she had no very distinct idea, and where
she might have to wait all night for a train, thus doubling
her chances of detection. She would rather walk the five or
six miles to Chaudfontaine during the night, and take the
first morning train to Pepinster and Spa; once there, there
could of course be no further difficulties.
She stood at the window now, ready to take the first step. She
had on the old black silk gown, in which Soeur Lucie's skilful
fingers had already made the necessary alterations, a black
cloth cloak, and a little round hat and veil. She had grown a
good deal during her illness, and the idea of height was aided
by the straight black skirt, which, reaching to her ankles,
gave her a quaint, old-fashioned air. She had her bundle on
her arm, but there was still a moment of irresolution, as she
looked for the last time round the little whitewashed room. It
appeared to her that she was going to do something so
dreadfully naughty. Our Madelon had not lived so long in a
convent atmosphere, without imbibing some of the convent ideas
and opinions, and she was aware that in the eyes of the nuns
there were few offences so heinous as that which she was going
to commit. "But I am not a nun yet," thinks the poor child,
clasping and unclasping her hands in her perplexity, and
struggling with the conscience-stricken sense of naughtiness,
which threatened at this last moment to overpower all her
foregone conclusions, and disconcert her in spite of herself--
"I am not a nun yet, so it cannot be so very wrong in me; and
then there is Monsieur Horace----" and with the thought of him
all Madelon's courage returned. The rush of associations
linking his name with a hundred aspirations, hopes, plans,
which had become a habit of mind with her, revived in full
force, and with these came a sudden realization of the
imminent nature of the present opportunity, which, if lost,
might never return.
The next moment she had dropped her bundle on the flower-bed
below, and was scrambling out of the low window, clinging to
the window-sill, catching hold of tough stems and pliant
branches, crashing down through twigs, and leaves, and
flowers, on to the ground beneath. Could these convent-trained
vines and roses have known what daring little culprit was
amongst them, would they have cried aloud for aid, I wonder,
stretching out thorny sprays, and twining tendrils, to catch
and detain her prisoner?--or would they not rather, in their
sweet liberty of air, and dew, and sunshine, have done their
best to help forward this poor little captive in her flight,
aiding her in her descent, and shielding her from all prying
eyes with their leafy branches, their interlacing sprays of
red buds, and soft, faint flowers?
But they paid no heed one way or the other, and Madelon, with
not a few scratches on her hands, and more that one rent in
her frock, was safely on the ground. It was all the work of a
moment; in another she had caught up her bundle, and was
darting over the lawn, across the twilit garden, as if the
whole sisterhood were in pursuit. Hardly knowing how she did
it, she clambered up the wall, through the big westeria,
reached the top, and slipping, sliding, found herself in the
pathway running round the outside, scratched, bruised, and
breathless, but without the walls, and so far free, at any
rate. Months afterwards she found some withered lilac-blossoms
lodged amongst the ribbons of her hat; how they recalled to
her the moment of that desperate rush and clamber, the faint,
dewy scent of the flowers, which she noticed even then, the
rustle and crash of the branches, which startled her as with
the sound of pursuing footsteps.
Once outside, she paused for a moment to take breath, and be
certain that no one was following her. All was quiet, and in
the stillness she could hear, as once before, the voices of
the nuns singing in the chapel. Picking up her bundle again,
she walked quickly away, along the little weed-grown path at
the back of the building, down the slope of the ploughed
field, up which she had come with Horace Graham two years and
a half ago. In thinking over her journey beforehand, she had
decided that it would be unwise to be walking along the
highroad whilst there was still any daylight left, and that
she would hide herself somewhere till it should be quite dark,
before setting out on her walk to Chaudfontaine. So, as soon
as she had reached the bottom of the unsheltered slope, she
looked about for a place of refuge. She found it in a clump of
trees and bushes growing by the roadside; and creeping in
amongst them, our Madelon's slim little figure was very well
concealed amongst the shadows from any passer-by. Eight
o'clock had struck as she left the convent. "I will wait till
nine," she resolved. "An hour will not be very long, and it
will be quite dark by that time." And so she did wait, with
the most determined impatient patience, through an hour that
seemed as if it would never end, whilst the darkness fell, and
passing footsteps became more and more rare. At last she heard
the shrill-toned convent clock strike nine, and coming out of
her place of concealment, she began her journey in earnest.
It was a dark, still, cloudy night. Above was the black mass
of the convent dimly defined against the sullen sky; she took
one glance at it before she bade it farewell; all was silent,
not a light shone from its windows, not a tree waved above the
surrounding walls. Behind her hung the great cloud of smoke
that ever darkens over the city of Liége. Here and there a
sudden glare illuminated the gloom of the surrounding hills;
it came from the furnaces of the great iron-foundries; before
her stretched the dusky road, between hedges and trees and
scattered houses, soon lost in the obscurity beyond. Not a
footstep could be heard, not a leaf rustled as Madelon and her
bundle emerged from their hiding-place; but the child felt no
alarm at the silence and solitude--the darkness and loneliness
of the road could not frighten her. Indeed she was naturally
of so courageous a temperament, and just then, through joy and
hope, of so brave a spirit, that it would have been only a
very real and present danger that could have alarmed her, and
she did not even dream if imaginary ones. She almost danced as
she went along, she felt so free and happy. "How glad I am to
have quitted the convent," she thought to herself; "how _triste_
it was, how dismal! How can people exist who always, always
live there? They do not live, I think, they seem half dead
already. Aunt Thérèse, how mournful and cold she always
looked; she never smiled, she hardly ever spoke; she was not
alive as other people are. Soeur Lucie told me that she would
be a glorious saint in Heaven, and ten thousand times more
happy than if she had not lived in the convent; how does Soeur
Lucie know, I wonder? If so, she must have been glad to die--it
was, perhaps, for that, that she made herself so miserable,
that she might not dread death when it came; but that seems to
me a very foolish way of spending one's life. And if to be
like Aunt Thérèse was to be a saint, I am sure all the nuns
were not so. How they used to chatter and quarrel sometimes;
Soeur Marie would hardly speak to Soeur Lucie for a week, I
remember, because she said Soeur Lucie had made Aunt Thérèse
give her the best piece of embroidery to do, after it had been
promised to her. I do not believe that; I love Soeur Lucie, she
was always kind to me, and never quarrelled with any one. Oh!
even if I had not made that promise to papa, I could never,
never, have been a nun; I have done well in running away."
She walked on for a long time, her thoughts running on the
scenes she had left behind, on the last two years of her life;
she had no remorse now, no regrets at their having come to an
end. To our lively, independent, excitable Madelon, they had,
as we know, been years of restraint, of penance, of utter
weariness; and never, perhaps, had she felt them to be so more
keenly than in these first moments of her release. But she
would have found them harder still without the memory of
Monsieur Horace, and her promise to him, to fill her heart and
imagination, and her thoughts reverted to him now; how, when
she had made his fortune, she would take it all to him; how he
would look, what he would say. This was a little picture the
child was never weary of imagining to herself. She filled it
in with a hundred different backgrounds, to suit the fancy of
the moment; she tinted it with the brightest colours. Out in
the vague future, into which no one can venture to look
without some point on which to rest the mind, this little
scene had gradually become at once the end of her present
hopes, the beginning of another life, of which, indeed, she
knew nothing, but that it lay in a sort of luminous haze of
success and happiness. She never doubted she would attain it;
it was not an affair of the imagination only, it was to be a
most certain reality; she had arranged it all in those long
weeks gone by, and now that the beginning was actually made,
she was ready to look at it from the most practical point of
view. Taking out her little purse, she began to count her
money for at least the fiftieth time, as she walked along in
the darkness.
"I have here twenty-six francs," she said to herself; "out of
these, I must pay my journey to Spa. Why should I not go to
Spa on foot? It cannot be a very long way; I remember that
papa sometimes went backwards and forwards twice in the day
from Chaudfontaine. I have already come a great way, and I am
not in the lest fatigued. If I could do that, I should save a
great deal of money--not that I am afraid I shall not have
plenty without that; ten francs would be sufficient, but it
will be perhaps safer if I can keep fifteen. Let me see; I
must pay for my room at Spa. I wonder whether Madame Bertrand
is still the landlady at the Hôtel de Madrid. Also I must have
some breakfast and some dinner; all this, however, will not
cost me ten francs. I imagine I could still take the train
from Chaudfontaine to Spa. Ah, I am getting very tired; I
wonder if I have much further to go. I think I must rest a
little while."
Madelon, in fact, but lately recovered from her fever, and for
many months unused to much exercise, was in no sort of
condition for a six or seven miles' walk. She had started with
great courage, but it seemed to her that she had already been
on her journey quite an indefinite length of time, and that
she must be near the end, whilst in fact she had only
accomplished half the distance. She would sit down for a short
time, she thought, and then the rest would soon be
accomplished, and she looked about for a seat of some kind.
The road hitherto could hardly have been called lonely, for
houses had been scattered on either side, and part of the way
had led through a large village, where, from some uncurtained
window, from some café or restaurant, long gleams of light had
shot across the road, revealing for an instant the little
figure passing swiftly along, glad to hide again in the
obscurity beyond. But all this was left behind now, and as far
as she could make out, she was quite in the open country,
though in the darkness she could hardly distinguish objects
three yards off. She found a big stone however, before long,
and sitting down on it, leaning her head against a tree, in
five minutes the child was soundly asleep.
How long she slept she never knew. Tired out, her repose was
at first profound and unconscious; but presently it began to
be haunted by confused dreams, in which past, present, and
future were mingled together. She dreamt that she was
wandering in some immense vaulted hall, where she had never
been before, and which yet resembled the refectory of the
convent; for long tables were spread as for the evening meal,
and in the twilight, black-robed nuns whose faces she could
never see, were gliding to and fro. And then, how or why she
did not know, they were no longer the deal tables of the
convent, with their coarse white cloths and earthenware
plates, but the long green tables of the Kursaal, with Aunt
Thérèse as croupier, and all the nuns pushing and raking the
piles of money backwards and forwards. She was amongst them,
and it seemed to her she had just won a great heap of gold;
but when she tried to get it, Aunt Thérèse, in the character
of croupier, refused to let her touch it. "It is mine; is it
not, papa?" she cried to somebody standing at her side; and
then looking up, saw it was Monsieur Horace; he did not speak,
but gazing at her for a moment, shook his head, and moved away
slowly into the gloom. And then the nuns and Aunt Thérèse also
seemed to vanish, and she was left alone with the tables and
the money, in the midst of which lay a long figure covered
with a sheet, as she had seen her father the night that he had
died. She did not think of that, however, but ran eagerly up
to the table to take her winnings, when the figure moved, a
hand was put out to seize the gold, and the sheet falling off,
Madelon recognized her dead father's face.
With a shriek she awoke, and sprang up, shivering and
trembling with cold and fright--all the terrors of the night
suddenly come upon her. She looked round; all was as it had
been when she went to sleep; the lonely road, the dark fields,
the trees and hedges; but a breeze had sprung up before the
dawn, and was rustling the leaves and branches; overhead a
star or two was shining in dark rifts, and in the east a
melancholy waning moon was slowly rising, half obscured by
scattered clouds. With a sudden impulse, born of an urgent
sense of utter loneliness and helplessness, the child fell on
her knees and repeated an Ave Maria; the clouds drifted away,
and the low moon shone out between the trees with a pale glow,
that to our convent-taught Madelon seemed suddenly to
irradiate and transfigure the night with a glory not of earth.
Never in after years did she, in church or picture-gallery,
come across glorified Madonna, or saint floating in ethereal
spaces, without the memory returning to her of a silent road,
dark, rustling trees, a midnight sky swept with clouds; and
then a vision, as it were, of light and hope, giving new
strength and courage to one little terrified heart.
Madelon started on her journey with renewed energy, but she
hardly knew how she got through the miles that remained. The
moon rose higher and higher, the road bordered with poplar-
trees seemed to stretch before and behind into a never-ending
length, as in some wearying nightmare. Madelon, in her
straight, old-fashioned silk frock, her bundle on her arm,
marching steadily on, looked nothing but a queer little black
speck, casting a long narrow shadow, as she passed from one
moon-lit space to another. Ever afterwards, when she looked
back upon that night, the whole seemed like some perplexed,
struggling dream, of which the waking reality appeared less
vivid than the visions that had haunted her sleep. Perhaps she
would have broken down altogether but for the friendly hints
of the coming day that presently began to show themselves.
There came a moment when the night grew more silent, and the
breeze more chilly, and the surrounding world more dim and
fantastic in the uncertain moonlight; and then the shadows
began to waver and grow confused, long streaks of light showed
themselves in the east, the moon grew fainter in the
brightening sky, the birds began to chirp and twitter in every
tree and bush. The night had vanished, and the horizon was all
aglow with the ruddy light of a new day, when Madelon turned
the last bend of the road, and saw before her the white
cottages, the big hotel, the stream and hills of
Chaudfontaine.