Closely veiled, acknowledging no one, looking at no one, and not
themselves recognized by any, but clinging to each other for mutual
support, Amélie and Héloise traversed swiftly the streets that led to
the Convent of the Ursulines.
At the doors, and in the porches and galleries of the old-fashioned
houses, women stood in groups, discussing eagerly the wild reports that
were flying to and fro through the city, and looking up and down the
streets for further news of the tragedy in the market-place. The male
part of the population had run off and gathered in excited masses around
the mansion of the Golden Dog, which was suddenly shut up, and long
streamers of black crape were hanging at the door.
Many were the inquisitive glances and eager whisperings of the good
wives and girls as the two ladies, deeply veiled in black, passed by
with drooping heads and handkerchiefs pressed against their faces, while
more than one quick ear caught the deep, suppressed sobs that broke from
their bosoms. No one ventured to address them, however, although their
appearance caused no little speculation as to who they were and whither
they were going.
Amélie and Héloise, almost fainting under their sorrow, stood upon the
broad stone step which formed the threshold that separated the world
they were entering into from the world they were leaving.
The high gables and old belfry of the Monastrey stood bathed in
sunlight. The figure of St. Joseph that dominated over the ancient
portal held out his arms and seemed to welcome the trembling fugitives
into the house with a gesture of benediction.
The two ladies paused upon the stone steps. Amélie clasped her arm round
Héloise, whom she pressed to her bosom and said, “Think before you knock
at this door and cross the threshold for the last time, Héloise! You
must not do it for my sake, darling.”
“No, Amélie,” replied she sadly. “It is not wholly for your sake. Would
I could say it were! Alas! If I remained in the world, I could even
now pity Le Gardeur, and follow him to the world's end; but it must
not--cannot be. Do not seek to dissuade me, Amélie, for it is useless.”
“Your mind is made up, then, to go in with me, my Héloise?” said Amélie,
with a fond, questioning look.
“Fully, finally, and forever!” replied she, with energy that left no
room for doubt. “I long ago resolved to ask the community to let me die
with them. My object, dear sister, is like yours: to spend my life in
prayers and supplications for Le Gardeur, and be laid, when God calls
me to his rest, by the side of our noble aunt, Mère Madelaine de
Repentigny, whose lamp still burns in the Chapel of the Saints, as if to
light you and me to follow in her footsteps.”
“It is for Le Gardeur's sake I too go,” replied Amélie; “to veil my face
from the eyes of a world I am ashamed to see, and to expiate, if I can,
the innocent blood that has been shed. But the sun shines very bright
for those to whom its beams are still pleasant!” said she, looking
around sadly, as if it were for the last time she bade adieu to the sun,
which she should never again behold under the free vault of heaven.
Héloise turned slowly to the door of the Convent. “Those golden rays
that shine through the wicket,” said she, “and form a cross upon the
pavement within, as we often observed with schoolgirl admiration, are
the only rays to gladden me now. I care no more for the light of
the sun. I will live henceforth in the blessed light of the lamp of
Repentigny. My mind is fixed, and I will not leave you, Amélie. 'Where
thou goest I will go, where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall
be my people, and thy God my God.'”
Amélie kissed her cousin tenderly. “So be it, then, Héloise. Your
heart is broken as well as mine. We will pray together for Le Gardeur,
beseeching God to pity and forgive.”
Amélie knocked at the door twice before a sound of light footsteps was
heard within. A veiled nun appeared at the little wicket and looked
gravely for a moment upon the two postulantes for admission, repeating
the formula usual on such occasions.
“What seek you, my sisters?”
“To come in and find rest, good Mère des Seraphins,” replied Amélie, to
whom the portière was well known. “We desire to leave the world and
live henceforth with the community in the service and adoration of our
blessed Lord, and to pray for the sins of others as well as our own.”
“It is a pious desire, and no one stands at the door and knocks but it
is opened. Wait, my sisters, I will summon the Lady Superior to admit
you.”
The nun disappeared for a few minutes. Her voice was heard again as she
returned to the wicket: “The Lady Superior deputes to Mère Esther the
privilege, on this occasion, of receiving the welcome postulantes of the
house of Repentigny.”
The portière retired from the wicket. The heavy door swung noiselessly
back, opening the way into a small antechamber, floored with smooth
flags, and containing a table and a seat or two. On either side of the
interior door of the antechamber was a turnstile or tourelle, which
enabled the inmates within to receive anything from the outside world
without being themselves seen. Amélie and Héloise passed through the
inner door, which opened as of its own accord, as they approached it
with trembling steps and troubled mien.
A tall nun, of commanding figure but benign aspect, received the two
ladies with the utmost affection, as well-known friends.
Mère Esther wore a black robe sweeping the ground. It was bound at the
waist by a leathern girdle. A black veil fell on each side of the snowy
fillet that covered her forehead, and half covered the white wimple upon
her neck and bosom.
At the first sight of the veil thrown over the heads of Amélie and
Héloise, and the agitation of both, she knew at once that the time of
these two girls, like that of many others, had come. Their arrival was
a repetition of the old, old story, of which her long experience had
witnessed many instances.
“Good mother,” exclaimed Amélie, throwing her arms around the nun, who
folded her tenderly to her bosom, although her face remained calm and
passionless, “we are come at last! Héloise and I wish to live and die in
the monastery. Good Mother Esther, will you take us in?”
“Welcome both!” replied Mère Esther, kissing each of them on the
forehead. “The virgins who enter in with the bridegroom to the marriage
are those whose lamps are burning! The lamp of Repentigny is never
extinguished in the Chapel of Saints, nor is the door of the monastery
ever shut against one of your house.”
“Thanks, good mother! But we bring a heavy burden with us. No one but
God can tell the weight and the pain of it!” said Amélie sadly.
“I know, Amélie, I know; but what says our blessed Lord? 'Come unto me
all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.'”
“I seek not rest, good mother,” replied she sadly, “but a place for
penance, to melt Heaven with prayers for the innocent blood that has
been shed to-day, that it be not recorded forever against my brother.
Oh, Mère Esther, you know my brother, Le Gardeur; how generous and kind
he was! You have heard of the terrible occurrence in the market-place?”
“Yes, I have heard,” said the nun. “Bad news reaches us ever soonest.
It fills me with amazement that one so noble as your brother should have
done so terrible a deed.”
“Oh, Mère Esther!” exclaimed Amélie eagerly, “it was not Le Gardeur in
his senses who did it. No, he never knowingly struck the blow that has
killed me as well as the good Bourgeois! Alas! he knew not what he did.
But still he has done it, and my remaining time left on earth must be
spent in sackcloth and ashes, beseeching God for pardon and mercy for
him.”
“The community will join you in your prayers, Amélie,” replied the Mère.
Esther stood wrapt in thought for a few moments. “Héloise!” said she,
addressing the fair cousin of Amélie, “I have long expected you in the
monastery. You struggled hard for the world and its delights, but
God's hand was stronger than your purposes. When He calls, be it in the
darkest night, happy is she who rises instantly to follow her Lord!”
“He has indeed called me, O mother! and I desire only to become a
faithful servant of His tabernacle forever. I pray, good Mère Esther,
for your intercession with the Mère de la Nativité. The venerable
Lady Superior used to say we were dowerless brides, we of the house of
Lotbinière.”
“But you shall not be dowerless, Héloise!” burst out Amélie. “You shall
enter the convent with as rich a dowry as ever accompanied an Ursuline.”
“No, Amélie; if they will not accept me for myself, I will imitate
my aunt, the admirable quêteuse, who, being, like me, a dowerless
postulante, begged from house to house throughout the city for the means
to open to her the door of the monastery.
“Héloise,” replied Mère Esther, “this is idle fear. We have waited for
you, knowing that one day you would come, and you will be most welcome,
dowered or not!”
“You are ever kind, Mère Esther, but how could you know I should come to
you?” asked Héloise with a look of inquiry.
“Alas, Héloise, we know more of the world and its doings than is well
for us. Our monastery is like the ear of Dionysius: not a whisper in the
city escapes it. Oh, darling, we knew you had failed in your one great
desire upon earth, and that you would seek consolation where it is only
to be found, in the arms of your Lord.”
“It is true, mother; I had but one desire upon earth, and it is crushed;
one little bird that nestled a while in my bosom, and it has flown
away. The event of to-day has stricken me and Amélie alike, and we come
together to wear out the stones of your pavement praying for the hapless
brother of Amélie.”
“And the object of Héloise's faithful love!” replied the nun with tender
sympathy. “Oh! how could Le Gardeur de Repentigny refuse a heart like
yours, Héloise, for the sake of that wild daughter of levity, Angélique
des Meloises?
“But come, I will conduct you to the venerable Lady Superior, who is in
the garden conversing with Grand'mère St. Pierre, and your old friend
and mistress, Mère Ste. Helène.”
The news of the tragedy in the market-place had been early carried to
the Convent by the ubiquitous Bonhomme Michael, who was out that day on
one of his multifarious errands in the service of the community.
The news had passed quickly through the Convent, agitating the usually
quiet nuns, and causing the wildest commotion among the classes
of girls, who were assembled at their morning lessons in the great
schoolroom. The windows were clustered with young, comely heads, looking
out in every direction, while nuns in alarm streamed from the long
passages to the lawn, where sat the venerable Superior, Mère Migeon
de la Nativité, under a broad ash-tree, sacred to the Convent by the
memories that clustered around it. The Ste. Therèse of Canada, Mère
Marie de l'Incarnation, for lack of a better roof, in the first days of
her mission, used to gather around her under that tree the wild Hurons
as well as the young children of the colonists, to give them their first
lessons in religion and letters.
Mère Esther held up her finger warningly to the nuns not to speak, as
she passed onward through the long corridors, dim with narrow lights and
guarded by images of saints, until she came into an open square flagged
with stones. In the walls of this court a door opened upon the garden
into which a few steps downwards conducted them.
The garden of the monastery was spacious and kept with great care.
The walks meandered around beds of flowers, and under the boughs of
apple-trees, and by espaliers of ancient pears and plums.
The fruit had long been gathered in, and only a few yellow leaves hung
upon the autumnal trees, but the grass was still green on the lawn where
stood the great ash-tree of Mère Marie de l'Incarnation. The last hardy
flowers of autumn lingered in this sheltered spot.
In these secluded alleys the quiet recluses usually walked and meditated
in peace, for here man's disturbing voice was never heard.
But to-day a cluster of agitated nuns gathered around the great
ash-tree, and here and there stood groups of black and white veils; some
were talking, while others knelt silently before the guardian of the
house, the image of St. Joseph, which overlooked this spot, considered
particularly sacred to prayer and meditation.
The sight of Mère Esther, followed by the well-known figures of Amélie
and Héloise, caused every head to turn with a look of recognition;
but the nuns were too well disciplined to express either surprise or
curiosity in the presence of Mère Migeon, however much they felt of
both. They stood apart at a sign from the Lady Superior, leaving her
with a nun attendant on each side to receive Mère Esther and her two
companions.
Mère Migeon de la Nativité was old in years, but fresh in looks and
alert in spirit. Her features were set in that peculiar expression of
drooping eyelids and placid lips which belongs to the Convent, but she
could look up and flash out on occasion with an air of command derived
from high birth and a long exercise of authority as Superior of the
Ursulines, to which office the community had elected her as many
trienniums as their rules permitted.
Mère Migeon had been nearly half a century a nun, and felt as much pride
as humility in the reflection. She liked power, which, however, she
exercised wholly for the benefit of her subjects in the Convent, and
wore her veil with as much dignity as the Queen her crown. But, if not
exempt from some traces of human infirmity, she made amends by devoting
herself night and day to the spiritual and temporal welfare of the
community, who submitted to her government with extreme deference and
unquestioning obedience.
Mère Migeon had directed the two sorrowing ladies to be brought into the
garden, where she would receive them under the old tree of Mère Marie de
l'Incarnation.
She rose with affectionate eagerness as they entered, and embraced them
one after the other, kissing them on the cheek; “her little prodigals
returning to the house of their father and mother, after feeding on the
husks of vanity in the gay world which was never made for them.”
“We will kill the fatted calf in honor of your return, Amélie. Will we
not, Mère Esther?” said the Lady Superior, addressing Amélie rather than
Héloise.
“Not for me, reverend Mère; you shall kill no fatted calf, real or
symbolical, for me!” exclaimed Amélie. “I come only to hide myself in
your cloister, to submit myself to your most austere discipline. I have
given up all. Oh, my Mère, I have given up all! None but God can know
what I have given up forever!”
“You were to have married the son of the Bourgeois, were you not,
Amélie?” asked the Superior, who, as the aunt of Varin, and by family
ties connected with certain leading spirits of the Grand Company, had no
liking for the Bourgeois Philibert; her feelings, too, had been wrought
upon by a recital of the sermon preached in the marketplace that
morning.
“Oh, speak not of it, good Mère! I was betrothed to Pierre Philibert,
and how am I requiting his love? I should have been his wife, but for
this dreadful deed of my brother. The Convent is all that is left to me
now.”
“Your aunt called herself the humble handmaid of Mary, and the lamp of
Repentigny will burn all the brighter trimmed by a daughter of her noble
house,” answered Mère Migeon.
“By two daughters, good Mere! Héloise is equally a daughter of our
house,” replied Amélie, with a touch of feeling.
Mère Esther whispered a few words in the ear of the Superior, advising
her to concede every request of Amélie and Héloise, and returned to the
wicket to answer some other hasty call from the troubled city.
Messengers despatched by Bonhomme Michael followed one another at short
intervals, bringing to the Convent exact details of all that occurred
in the streets, with the welcome tidings at last that the threatened
outbreak had been averted by the prompt interposition of the Governor
and troops. Comparative quietness again reigned in every quarter of the
city.
Le Gardeur de Repentigny had voluntarily surrendered himself to the
guard and given up his sword, being overwhelmed with remorse for his
act. He had been placed, not in irons as he had demanded, but as a
prisoner in the strong ward of the Castle of St. Louis.
“I pray you, reverend Mère Superior,” said Amélie, “permit us now to
go into the Chapel of Saints to lay our hearts, as did our kinswoman,
Madelaine de Repentigny, at the feet of our Lady of Grand Pouvoir.”
“Go, my children, and our prayers shall go with you,” replied the
Superior; “the lamp of Repentigny will burn brighter than ever to-night
to welcome you.”
The Chapel of Saints was held in reverence as the most sacred place in
the monastery. It contained the shrines and relics of many saints
and martyrs. The devout nuns lavished upon it their choicest works
of embroidery, painting, and gilding, in the arts of which they were
eminent. The old Sacristaine was kneeling before the altar as Amélie and
Héloise entered the Chapel.
An image of the Virgin occupied a niche in the Chapel wall, and before
it burned the silver lamp of Repentigny which had been hung there two
generations before, in memory of the miraculous call of Madelaine de
Repentigny and her victory over the world.
The high-bred and beautiful Madelaine had been the delight and pride of
Ville Marie. Stricken with grief by the death of a young officer to whom
she was affianced, she retired to Quebec, and knelt daily at the feet of
our Lady of Pouvoir, beseeching her for a sign if it was her will that
she should become an Ursuline.
The sign was given, and Madelaine de Repentigny at once exchanged her
gay robes for the coarse black gown and veil, and hung up this votive
lamp before the Madonna as a perpetual memorial of her miraculous call.
Seven generations of men have passed away since then. The house of
Repentigny has disappeared from their native land. Their name and fame
lie buried in oblivion, except in that little Chapel of the Saints where
their lamp still burns brightly as ever. The pious nuns of St. Ursule,
as the last custodians of the traditions of New France, preserve that
sole memorial of the glories and misfortunes of the noble house,--the
lamp of Repentigny.
Amélie and Héloise remained long in the Chapel of Saints, kneeling upon
the hard floor as they prayed with tears and sobs for the soul of the
Bourgeois and for God's pity and forgiveness upon Le Gardeur.
To Amélie's woes was added the terrible consciousness that, by this deed
of her brother, Pierre Philibert was torn from her forever. She pictured
to herself his grief, his love, his despair, perhaps his vengeance; and
to add to all, she, his betrothed bride, had forsaken him and fled like
a guilty thing, without waiting to see whether he condemned her.
An hour ago Amélie had been the envy and delight of her gay bridesmaids.
Her heart had overflowed like a fountain of wine, intoxicating all
about her with joy at the hope of the speedy coming of her bridegroom.
Suddenly the idols of her life had been shattered as by a thunderbolt,
and lay in fragments around her feet.
The thought came upon her like the rush of angry wings. She knew that
all was over between her and Pierre. The cloister and the veil were all
that were left to Amélie de Repentigny.
“Héloise, dearest sister!” exclaimed she, “my conscience tells me I have
done right, but my heart accuses me of wrong to Pierre, of falseness to
my plighted vows in forsaking him; and yet, not for heaven itself would
I have forsaken Pierre. Would that I were dead! Oh, what have I done,
Héloise, to deserve such a chastisement as this from God?”
Amélie threw her arms around the neck of Héloise, and leaning her head
on her bosom, wept long and without restraint, for none saw them save
God.
“Listen!” said Héloise, as the swelling strain of the organ floated
up from the convent chapel. The soft voices of the nuns mingled in
plaintive harmony as they sang the hymn of the Virgin:
“Pia Mater! Fons amoris!
Me sentire vim doloris
Fac, ut tecum lugeam!”
Again came the soft pleading notes of the sacred hymn:
“Quando corpus morietur,
Fac ut animae donetur
Paradisi gloria! Amen!”
The harmony filled the ears of Amélie and Héloise, like the lap of
the waves of eternity upon the world's shore. It died away, and they
continued praying before Our Lady of Grand Pouvoir.
The silence was suddenly broken. Hasty steps traversed the little
chapel. A rush of garments caused Amélie and Héloise to turn around, and
in an instant they were both clasped in the passionate embrace of the
Lady de Tilly, who had arrived at the Convent.
“My dear children, my poor, stricken daughters,” exclaimed she, kissing
them passionately and mingling her tears with theirs, “what have you
done to be dashed to the earth by such a stroke of divine wrath?”
“Oh, aunt, pardon us for what we have done!” exclaimed Amélie, “and for
not asking your consent, but alas! it is God's will and doing! I have
given up the world; do not blame me, aunt!”
“Nor me, aunt!” added Héloise; “I have long known that the cloister was
my sole heritage, and I now claim it.”
“Blame you, darling! Oh, Amélie, in the shame and agony of this day I
could share the cloister with you myself forever, but my work is out in
the wide world, and I must not withdraw my hand!”
“Have you seen Le Gardeur? Oh, aunt! have you seen my brother?” asked
Amélie, seizing her hand passionately.
“I have seen him, and wept over him,” was the reply. “Oh, Amélie! great
as is his offence, his crime, yes, I will be honest calling it such,--no
deeper contrition could rend his heart had he committed all the sins
forbidden in the Decalogue. He demands a court martial to condemn him at
once to death, upon his own self-accusation and confession of the murder
of the good Bourgeois.”
“Oh, aunt, and he loved the Bourgeois so! It seems like a hideous dream
of fright and nightmare that Le Gardeur should assail the father of
Pierre Philibert, and mine that was to be!”
At this thought the poor girl flung herself upon the bosom of the Lady
de Tilly, convulsed and torn by as bitter sobs as ever drew human pity.
“Le Gardeur! Le Gardeur! Good God! what will they do with him, aunt? Is
he to die?” cried she imploringly, as with streaming eyes she looked up
at her aunt.
“Listen, Amélie! Compose yourself and you shall hear. I was in the
Church of Notre Dame des Victoires when I received the tidings. It was
long before the messenger found me. I rose instantly and hastened to
the house of the Bourgeois, where its good master lay dead in his bloody
vesture. I cannot describe the sad sight, Amélie! I there learned that
the Governor and La Corne St. Luc had been to the house of the Bourgeois
and had returned to the Castle.”
“Oh, aunt, did you see him? Did you see the good old Bourgeois? And you
know he is dead?”
“Yes, Amélie, I saw him, and could have wished my eyesight blasted
forever after. Do not ask me more.”
“But I must, aunt! Did you see--oh, why may I not yet utter his dear
name?--did you see Pierre?”
“Yes, Amélie. Pierre came home unexpectedly while I was weeping over the
dead corpse of his father. Poor Pierre! my own sorrows were naught to
his silent grief! It was more terrible than the wildest outburst of
passion I ever saw!”
“And what did he say? Oh, aunt, tell me all! Do not spare me one word,
however bitter! Did he not curse you? Did he not curse me? And above
all, Le Gardeur? Oh, he cursed us all; he heaped a blasting malediction
upon the whole house of Repentigny, did he not?”
“Amélie, be composed! Do not look at me so wildly with these dear eyes,
and I will tell you.” Her aunt tried to soothe her with fond caresses.
“I will be composed! I am calm! Look now, aunt, I am calm!” exclaimed
the grief-stricken girl, whose every nerve was quivering with wild
excitement.
The Lady de Tilly and Héloise made her sit down, while each held
forcibly a hand to prevent an access of hysteria. Mère Ste. Vierge rose
and hastily left the chapel to fetch water.
“Amélie, the nobleness of Pierre Philibert is almost beyond the range of
fallible mortals,” said the Lady de Tilly. “In the sudden crash of all
his hopes he would not utter a word of invective against your brother.
His heart tells him that Le Gardeur has been made the senseless
instrument of others in this crime.”
“A thousand thanks, dearest aunt, for your true appreciation of Pierre!
I know he deserves it all; and when the veil covers my head forever from
the eyes of men, it will be my sole joy to reflect that Pierre Philibert
was worthy, more than worthy, of my love! But what said he further,
aunt? Oh, tell me all!”
“He rose from his knees beside the corpse of his father,” continued the
lady, “and seeing me kneeling, raised me and seated me in a chair beside
him. He asked me where you were, and who was with you to support and
comfort you in this storm of affliction. I told him, and he kissed me,
exclaiming, 'Oh, aunt,--mother, what shall I do?'”
“Oh, aunt! did Pierre say that? Did he call you aunt and mother? And he
did not curse me at all? Poor Pierre!” And she burst out into a flood of
tears which nothing could control.
“Yes Amélie! His heart is bleeding to death with this dreadful
sword-stroke of Le Gardeur's,” said the Lady de Tilly, after waiting
till she recovered somewhat.
“And will he not slay Le Gardeur? Will he not deem it his duty to kill
my brother and his?” cried she. “He is a soldier and must!”
“Listen, Amélie. There is a divinity in Pierre that we see only in
the noblest of men; he will not slay Le Gardeur. He is his brother and
yours, and will regard him as such. Whatever he might have done in the
first impulse of anger, Pierre will not now seek the life of Le Gardeur.
He knows too well whence this blow has really come. He has been deeply
touched by the remorse and self-accusation of Le Gardeur.”
“I could kiss his feet! my noble Pierre! Oh, aunt, aunt! what have I
not lost! But I was betrothed to him, was I not?” She started up with a
shriek of mortal agony. “They never can recall that!” she cried wildly.
“He was to have been mine! He is still mine, and forever will be mine!
Death will reunite what in life is sundered! Will it not, aunt?”
“Yes; be composed, darling, and I will tell you more. Nay, do not look
at me so, Amélie!” The Lady de Tilly stroked her cheek and kissed
the dark eyes that seemed flaring out of their sockets with maddening
excitement.
“When I had recovered strength enough to go to the Castle to see the
Count, Pierre supported me thither. He dared not trust himself to see
Le Gardeur, who from his prison sent message after message to him to beg
death at his hand.
“I held a brief conference with the Governor, La Corne St. Luc, and
a few gentlemen, who were hastily gathered together in the
council-chamber. I pleaded long, not for pardon, not even for Le
Gardeur could I ask for pardon, Amélie!” exclaimed the just and noble
woman,--“but for a calm consideration of the terrible circumstances
which had surrounded him in the Palace of the Intendant, and which had
led directly to the catastrophe.”
“And what said they? Oh, be quick, aunt! Is not Le Gardeur to be tried
by martial law and condemned at once to death?”
“No, Amélie! The Count de la Galissonière, with the advice of his
wisest counsellors, among whom is your godfather and others, the dearest
friends of both families, have resolved to send Le Gardeur to France by
the Fleur de Lys, which sails to-morrow. They do this in order that the
King may judge of his offence, as also to prevent the conflict that may
arise between the contending factions in the Colony, should they try him
here. This resolution may be wise, or not, I do not judge; but such
is the determination of the Governor and Council, to which all must
submit.”
Amélie held her head between her palms for some moments. She was
violently agitated, but she tried to consider, as best she might, the
decision with regard to her brother.
“It is merciful in them,” she said, “and it is just. The King will judge
what is right in the sight of God and man. Le Gardeur was but a blind
instrument of others in this murder, as blind almost as the sword he
held in his hand. But shall I not see him, aunt, before he is sent
away?”
“Alas, no! The Governor, while kind, is inexorable on one point. He will
permit no one, after this, to see Le Gardeur, to express either blame or
approval of his deed, or to report his words. He will forbid you and me
and his nearest friends from holding any communication with him before
he leaves the Colony. The Count has remitted his case to the King, and
resolved that it shall be accompanied by no self-accusation which Le
Gardeur may utter in his frantic grief. The Count does this in justice
as well as mercy, Amélie.”
“Then I shall never see my brother more in this world,--never!”
exclaimed Amélie, supporting herself on the arm of Héloise. “His fate is
decided as well as mine, and yours too, O Héloise.”
“It may not be so hard with him as with us, Amélie,” replied Héloise,
whose bosom was agitated with fresh emotions at every allusion to Le
Gardeur. “The King may pardon him, Amélie.” Héloise in her soul hoped
so, and in her heart prayed so.
“Alas! If we could say God pardoned him!” replied Amélie, her thoughts
running suddenly in a counter-current. “But my life must be spent in
imploring God's grace and forgiveness all the same, whether man forgive
him or no.”
“Say not my life, but our lives, Amélie. We have crossed the threshold
of this house together for the last time. We go no more out to look upon
a world fair and beautiful to see, but so full of disappointment and
wretchedness to have experience of!”
“My daughters,” exclaimed the Lady de Tilly, “another time we will speak
of this. Harken, Amélie! I did not tell you that Pierre Philibert came
with me to the gate of the Convent to see you. He would have entered,
but the Lady Superior refused inexorably to admit him even to the
parlor.”
“Pierre came to the Convent,--to the Convent?” repeated Amélie with fond
iteration, “and they would not admit him. Why would they not admit him?
But I should have died of shame to see him. They were kind in their
cruelty. Poor Pierre! he thinks me still worthy of some regard.” She
commenced weeping afresh.
“He would fain have seen you, darling,” said her aunt. “Your flight
to the Convent--he knows what it means--overwhelms him with a new
calamity.”
“And yet it cannot be otherwise. I dare not place my hand in his now,
for it would redden it! But it is sweet amid my affliction to know that
Pierre has not forgotten me, that he does not hate me, nay, that he
still loves me, although I abandon the world and him who to me was the
light of it. Why would they not admit him?”
“Mère Migeon is as hard as she is just, Amélie. I think too she has no
love for the Philiberts. Her nephew Varin has all the influence of a
spoilt son over the Lady Superior.”
Amélie scarcely regarded the last remark of her aunt, but repeated the
words, “Hard and just! Yes, it is true, and hardness and justice are
what I crave in my misery. The flintiest couch shall be to me a bed of
down, the scantiest fare a royal feast, the hardest penance a life of
pleasure. Mère Migeon cannot be more hard nor more just to me than I
would be to myself.”
“My poor Amélie! My poor Héloise!” repeated the lady, stroking their
hair and kissing them both alternately; “be it as God wills. When it is
dark every prospect lies hid in the darkness, but it is there all the
same, though we see it not; but when the day returns everything is
revealed. We see naught before us now but the image of our Lady of
Grand Pouvoir illumined by the lamp of Repentigny, but the sun of
righteousness will yet arise with healing on his wings for us all! But
oh, my children, let nothing be done hastily, rashly, or unbecoming the
daughters of our honorable house.”