The chant of vespers had long ceased. The Angelus had rung its last
summons to invoke a blessing upon life and death at the close of
the day. The quiet nuns filed off from their frugal meal in the long
refectory and betook themselves to the community or to their peaceful
cells. The troop of children in their charge had been sent with prayer
to their little couches in the dormitory, sacred to sleep and happy
dreams.
Candles flickered through the long passages as veiled figures slowly
and noiselessly passed towards the chapel to their private devotions.
Scarcely a footfall reached the ear, nor sound of any kind, except the
sweet voice of Mère Madelaine de St. Borgia. Like the flow of a full
stream in the still moonlight, she sang her canticle of praise to the
guardian of the house, before she retired to rest:
“Ave, Joseph! Fili David juste!
Vir Mariae de qua natus est Jesus!”
Lady de Tilly sat listening as she held the hands of her two nieces,
thinking how merciless was Fate, and half rebelling in her mind against
the working of Providence. The sweet song of Mère St. Borgia fell like
soft rain upon her hard thoughts, and instilled a spirit of resignation
amid the darkness, as she repeated the words, “Ave, Joseph!” She fought
bitterly in her soul against giving up her two lambs, as she called
them, to the cold, scant life of the cloister, while her judgment saw
but too plainly that naught else seemed left to their crushed and broken
spirits. But she neither suggested their withdrawal from the Convent,
nor encouraged them to remain.
In her secret thought, the Lady de Tilly regarded the cloister as
a blessed refuge for the broken-hearted, a rest for the weary and
overladen with earthly troubles, a living grave, which such may covet
and not sin; but the young, the joyous, the beautiful, and all capable
of making the world fairer and better, she would inexorably shut out.
Christ calls not these from the earthly paradise; but the afflicted, the
disappointed, the despairing, they who have fallen helplessly down in
the journey of life, and are of no further use in this world, these he
calls by their names and comforts them. But for those rare souls who are
too cold for aught but spiritual joys, he reserves a peculiar though not
his choicest benediction.
The Lady de Tilly pondered these thoughts over and over, in the fulness
of pity for her children. She would not leave the Convent at the closing
of the gates for the night, but remained the honored guest of Mère
Migeon, who ordered a chamber to be prepared for her in a style that
was luxurious compared with the scantily furnished rooms allotted to the
nuns.
Amélie prevailed, after much entreaty, upon Mère Esther, to intercede
with the Superior for permission to pass the night with Héloise in the
cell that had once been occupied by her pious kinswoman, Mère Madelaine.
“It is a great thing to ask,” replied Mère Esther as she returned with
her desired boon, “and a greater still to be obtained! But Mère Migeon
is in a benevolent mood tonight; for the sake of no one else would she
have granted a dispensation of the rules of the house.”
That night Lady de Tilly held a long and serious conference with Mère
Migeon and Mère Esther, upon the event which had driven her nieces to
the cloister, promising that if, at the end of a month, they persisted
in their resolutions, she would consent to their assumption of the white
veil; and upon the completion of their novitiate, when they took the
final vows, she would give them up with such a dower as would make
all former gifts of the house of Repentigny and Tilly poor in the
comparison.
Mère Migeon was especially overjoyed at this prospect of relieving the
means of her house, which had been so terribly straitened of late years.
The losses occasioned by the war had been a never-ending source of
anxiety to her and Mère Esther, who, however, kept their troubles as far
as possible to themselves, in order that the cares of the world might
not encroach too far upon the minds of the community. Hence they were
more than ordinarily glad at this double vocation in the house of
Repentigny. The prospect of its great wealth falling to pious uses they
regarded as a special mark of divine providence and care for the house
of Ste. Ursule.
“Oh, Mère Esther! Mère Esther!” exclaimed the Lady Superior. “I feel
too great a satisfaction in view of the rich dower of these two girls.
I need much self-examination to weed out worldly thoughts. Alas! Alas! I
would rather be the humblest aunt in our kitchen than the Lady Superior
of the Ursulines. Blessed old Mère Marie used to say 'a good turn in the
kitchen was as good as a prayer in the chapel.'”
Mère Esther reflected a moment, and said, “We have long found it easier
to pray for souls than to relieve bodies. I thank good St. Joseph for
this prospective blessing upon our monastery.”
During the long and wasting war, Mère Migeon had seen her poor nuns
reduced to grievous straits, which they bore cheerfully, however, as
their share of the common suffering of their country. The cassette of
St. Joseph, wherein were deposited the oboli for the poor, had long been
emptied. The image of St. Joseph au Blé, that stood at the great stair,
and kept watch over the storeroom of corn and bread, had often guarded
an empty chamber. St. Joseph au Labeur, overlooking the great kitchen
of the Convent, had often been deaf to the prayers of “my aunts,” who
prepared the food of the community. The meagre tables of the refectory
had not seldom been the despair of the old depositaire, Mère St. Louis,
who devoutly said her longest graces over her scantiest meals.
“I thank St. Joseph for what he gives, and for what he withholds; yea,
for what he takes away!” observed Mère St. Louis to her special friend
and gossip, Mère St. Antoine, as they retired from the chapel. “Our
years of famine are nearly over. The day of the consecration of Amélie
de Repentigny will be to us the marriage at Cana. Our water will be
turned into wine. I shall no longer need to save the crumbs, except for
the poor at our gate.”
The advent of Amélie de Repentigny was a circumstance of absorbing
interest to the nuns, who regarded it as a reward for their long
devotions and prayers for the restoration of their house to its old
prosperity. We usually count Providence upon our side when we have
consciously done aught to merit the good fortune that befalls us.
And now days came and went, went and came, as Time, the inexorable, ever
does, regardless of human joys or sorrows. Amélie, weary of the world,
was only desirous of passing away from it to that sphere where time is
not, and where our affections and thoughts alone measure the periods of
eternity. For time, there, is but the shadow that accompanies the joys
of angels, or the woes of sinners,--not the reality. It is time here,
eternity there!
The two postulantes seemed impressed with the spirit that, to their
fancies, lingered in the cell of their kinswoman, Mère Madelaine. They
bent their gentle necks to the heaviest yoke of spiritual service which
their Superior would consent to lay upon them.
Amélie's inflexible will made her merciless towards herself. She took
pleasure in the hardest of self-imposed penances, as if the racking of
her soul by incessant prayers, and wasting of her body by vigils and
cruel fastings, were a vicarious punishment, borne for the sake of her
hapless brother.
She could not forget Pierre, nor did she ever try to forget him. It
was observed by the younger nuns that when, by chance or design, they
mentioned his name, she looked up and her lips moved in silent prayer;
but she spoke not of him, save to her aunt and to Héloise. These two
faithful friends alone knew the inexpressible anguish with which she had
heard of Pierre's intended departure for France.
The shock caused by the homicide of the Bourgeois, and the consequent
annihilation of all the hopes of her life in a happy union with Pierre
Philibert, was too much for even her naturally sound and elastic
constitution. Her health gave way irrecoverably. Her face grew thin
and wan without losing any of its spiritual beauty, as her soul looked
through its ever more transparent covering, which daily grew more and
more aetherialized as she faded away. A hectic flush, like a spot of
fire, came and went for a time, and at last settled permanently upon
her cheek. Her eyes, those glorious orbs, filled with unquenchable love,
grew supernaturally large and brilliant with the flames that fed upon
her vital forces. Amélie sickened and sank rapidly. The vulture of quick
consumption had fastened upon her young life.
Mère Esther and Mère Migeon shook their heads, for they were used to
broken hearts, and knew the infallible signs which denote an early death
in the young and beautiful. Prayers and masses were offered for the
recovery of Amélie, but all in vain. God wanted her. He alone knew how
to heal that broken heart. It was seen that she had not long to live. It
was known she wished to die.
Pierre heard the tidings with overwhelming grief. He had been permitted
but once to see her for a few brief moments, which dwelt upon his mind
forever. He deferred his departure to Europe in consequence of her
illness, and knocked daily at the door of the Convent to ask after her
and leave some kind message or flower, which was faithfully carried to
her by the friendly nuns who received him at the wicket. A feeling of
pity and sympathy for these two affianced and unfortunate lovers stole
into the hearts of the coldest nuns, while the novices and the romantic
convent girls were absolutely wild over the melancholy fate of Pierre
and Amélie.
He long solicited in vain for another interview with Amélie, but until
it was seen that she was approaching the end, it was not granted him.
Mère Esther interceded strongly with the Lady Superior, who was jealous
of the influence of Pierre with her young novice. At length Amélie's
prayers overcame her scruples. He was told one day that Amélie was
dying, and wished to see him for the last time in this world.
Amélie was carried in a chair to the bars to receive her sorrowing
lover. Her pale face retained its statuesque beauty of outline, but so
thin and wasted!
“Pierre will not know me;” whispered she to Héloise, “but I shall smile
at the joy of meeting him, and then he will recognize me.”
Her flowing veil was thrown back from her face. She spoke little, but
her dark eyes were fixed with devouring eagerness upon the door by which
she knew Pierre would come in. Her aunt supported her head upon her
shoulder, while Héloise knelt at her knee and fanned her with sisterly
tenderness, whispering words of sisterly sympathy in her ear.
Pierre flew to the Convent at the hour appointed. He was at once
admitted, with a caution from Mère Esther to be calm and not agitate the
dying girl. The moment he entered the great parlor, Amélie sprang from
her seat with a sudden cry of recognition, extending her poor thin
hands through the bars towards him. Pierre seized them, kissing them
passionately, but broke down utterly at the sight of her wasted face and
the seal of death set thereon.
“Amélie, my darling Amélie!” exclaimed he; “I have prayed so long to see
you, and they would not let me in.”
“It was partly my fault, Pierre,” said she fondly. “I feared to let you
see me. I feared to learn that you hate, as you have cause to do, the
whole house of Repentigny! And yet you do not curse me, dear Pierre?”
“My poor angel, you break my heart! I curse the house of Repentigny? I
hate you? Amélie, you know me better.”
“But your good father, the noble and just Bourgeois! Oh, Pierre, what
have we not done to you and yours!”
She fell back upon her pillow, covering her eyes with her
semi-transparent hands, bursting, as she did so, into a flood of
passionate tears and passing into a dead faint.
Pierre was wild with anguish. He pressed against the bars. “For God's
sake, let me in!” exclaimed he; “she is dying!”
The two quiet nuns who were in attendance shook their heads at Pierre's
appeal to open the door. They were too well disciplined in the iron rule
of the house to open it without an express order from the Lady Superior,
or from Mère Esther. Their bosoms, abounding in spiritual warmth,
responded coldly to the contagion of mere human passion. Their ears,
unused to the voice of man's love, tingled at the words of Pierre.
Fortunately, Mère Esther, ever on the watch, came into the parlor, and,
seeing at a glance the need of the hour, opened the iron door and bade
Pierre come in. He rushed forward and threw himself at the feet of
Amélie, calling her by the most tender appellatives, and seeking to
recall her to a consciousness of his presence.
That loved, familiar voice overtook her spirit, already winging its
flight from earth, and brought it back for a few minutes longer. Mère
Esther, a skilful nurse, administered a few drops of cordial, and,
seeing her dying condition, sent instantly for the physician and the
chaplain.
Amélie opened her eyes and turned them inquiringly around the group
until they fastened upon Pierre. A flash of fondness suddenly suffused
her face, as she remembered how and why he was there. She threw her
arms around his neck and kissed him many times, murmuring, “I have often
prayed to die thus, Pierre! close to you, my love, close to you; in your
arms and God's, where you could receive my last breath, and feel in the
last throb of my heart that it is wholly yours!”
“My poor Amélie,” cried he, pressing her to his bosom, “you shall not
die! Courage, darling! It is but weakness and the air of the convent;
you shall not die.”
“I am dying now, Pierre,” said she, falling back upon her pillow. “I
feel I have but a short time to live. I welcome death, since I cannot be
yours. But, oh, the unutterable pang of leaving you, my dear love!”
Pierre could only reply by sobs and kisses. Amélie was silent for a few
moments, as if revolving some deep thought in her mind.
“There is one thing, Pierre, I have to beg of you,” said she, faltering
as if doubting his consent to her prayer. “Can you, will you, accept
my life for Le Gardeur's? If I die for HIM, will you forgive my poor
blood-stained and deluded brother, and your own? Yes, Pierre,” repeated
she, as she raised his hand to her lips and kissed it, “your brother, as
well as mine! Will you forgive him, Pierre?”
“Amélie! Amélie!” replied he with a voice broken with emotion, “can you
fancy other than that I would forgive him? I forgave Le Gardeur from the
first. In my heart I never accused him of my father's death. Alas, he
knew not what he did! He was but a sword in the hands of my father's
enemies. I forgave him then, darling, and I forgive him wholly now, for
your sake and his own.”
“My noble Pierre!” replied she, putting out her arms towards him. “Why
might not God have suffered me to reward such divine goodness? Thanks,
my love! I now die content with all things but parting with you.” She
held him fast by his hands, one of which she kept pressed to her lips.
They all looked at her expectantly, waiting for her to speak again, for
her eyes were wide open and fixed with a look of ineffable love upon the
face of Pierre, looking like life, after life was fled. She still held
him in her rigid clasp, but she moved not. Upon her pale lips a smile
seemed to hover. It was but the shadow left behind of her retreating
soul. Amélie de Repentigny was dead! The angel of death had kissed her
lovingly, and unnoticed of any she had passed with him away.
The watchful eye of the Lady de Tilly was the first to see that Amélie's
breath had gone so quietly that no one caught her latest sigh. The
physician and chaplain rushed hurriedly into the chamber, but too late.
The great physician of souls had already put his beloved to sleep,--the
blessed sleep, whose dream is of love on earth, and whose waking is
in heaven. The great high priest of the sons and daughters of men had
anointed her with the oil of his mercy, and sent his blessed angels to
lead her to the mansions of everlasting rest.
The stroke fell like the stunning blow of a hammer upon the heart of
Pierre. He had, indeed, foreseen her death, but tried in vain to realize
it. He made no outcry, but sat still, wrapped in a terrible silence as
in the midst of a desert. He held fast her dead hands, and gazed upon
her dead face until the heart-breaking sobs of Héloise, and the appeals
of Mère Esther, roused him from his stupor.
He rose up, and, lifting Amélie in his arms, laid her upon a couch
tenderly and reverently, as a man touches the holiest object of his
religion. Amélie was to him a sacrament, and in his manly love he
worshipped her more as a saint than as a woman, a creation of heavenly
more than of earthly perfections.
Pierre bent over her and closed for the last time those dear eyes which
had looked upon him so pure and so lovingly. He embraced her dead form,
and kissed those pallid lips which had once confessed her unalterable
love and truth for Pierre Philibert.
The agitated nuns gathered round them at the news of death in the
Convent. They looked wonderingly and earnestly at an exhibition of such
absorbing affection, and were for the most part in tears. With some of
these gentle women this picture of true love, broken in the midst of its
brightest hopes, woke sympathies and recollections which the watchful
eye of Mère Migeon promptly checked as soon as she came into the parlor.
The Lady Superior saw that all was over, and that Pierre's presence
was an uneasiness to the nuns, who glanced at him with eyes of pity and
womanly sympathy. She took him kindly by the hand, with a few words of
condolence, and intimated that, as he had been permitted to see the end,
he must now withdraw from those forbidden precincts and leave his lost
treasure to the care of the nuns who take charge of the dead.