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of the ante-room; and the voices of the sisters in the chœur, singing the midnight chant, were the only sound which stole on the ear, with the exception of the sweet accents of pity poured forth by Pauline.

"What is the matter, dear sister?" she said; "why are you separated from us? Why can you not be with us as before? Resist the evil one, and he will flee from you; the church is all-powerful; use the means which are provided for the victory over the enemy; there are many among us who love you dearly. Here is my own Angelique, though a stranger to you, she has wept with me and prayed for you, with the real kindness of a sister-say you love us, gentle Clarice-say you love us-and, return and be with us as before."

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"Oh! beloved Pauline," replied Clarice, sweet sisters, and do you not wholly reject and abandon me?” and, seated as she was, she threw her arms round Pauline and wept abundantly.

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"Then you will, dear sister, you will be what you once were?" said Pauline. They charge you with refusing to obey the ordinances of the holy church--of showing contempt of our sacred mysteries. Will you acknowledge your offences, if you have been justly charged, and pray to be restored ?"

"Oh, my God!" replied Clarice, lifting up her united hands, "have mercy on me, have mercy on me, and give me strength-strength to say-it cannot be-it must not be !"

"What cannot, must not be ?" asked Pauline; but before Clarice could reply, we were aware of the presence of Sister Annunciata.

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The beautiful nun stood directly where the lamp shed its strongest ray upon her face. A calm severity expressed itself in her fine features, and raising her hand, Go, Clarice!" she said, "leave these holy sisters: be not, as a second Satan, beguiling the children of Paradise. Withdraw to your chamber: affect not a weakness you do not feel. He that has strengthened your will against the Almighty will assuredly assist you in this present hour of need;" and her upper lip curled, as it were with scorn, as her eye followed the trembling Clarice, who was passing slowly along the vaulted passage which led from the ante-chœur, at the command of one who had once been to her as the dearest of dear friends. But Pauline could not bear to witness

this cold and cruel scorn, and no sooner had the figure of Clarice disappeared in the gloom than she broke forth in high and beautiful indignation:

"Does it become you, Annunciata," she said, “you who were once to her as a friend most dear, to point the arrow which is to pierce her, who is already wounded to death? Grant that she has fallen, who was once the light, the glory, the beautiful ornament of the community-who shall say but you may next become an object of scorn for others? Who has armed you with a strength that cannot fail? May not your very pride, your sense of your present sanctity, be the very quarter in which the enemy may attack you? But we have seen, we have understood in what scale your influence has been laid, and I will be plain with you; we think that the severe measures which you have abetted, if not counselled, have riveted the chains which have bound this unhappy Clarice."

It was impossible to stop Pauline by any hint that I could give her, till she had run herself out; and it was too suitable to the policy of Sister Annunciata to suppose it possible that she should attempt to stop any one who, through anger, enthusiasm, or any other excitement, was in danger of betraying any secret feeling, either of her own or of another. However, when my friend had said all that is recorded above, and a great deal more, she answered, calmly, "This is an affair for the consideration of madame, and to her it must be referred for the present, our superior duties call us to the conclusion of the service. Madame has sent me to request the immediate return of Sister Pauline and Sister Angelique to the chœur." So saying, she walked majestically before us, while we followed, all trembling with contending emotions, of which those of fear, and almost of hatred, were the predominant.

It was not to be expected that the indiscretion of Pauline would be disregarded. It is, however, one of the characteristics of a monastic establishment, that the displeasure of the superieure does not always break out immediately, but, like a volcano, may burst forth at any time, though oftentimes without any previous mutterings. Madame looked as serene, and Sister Annunciata as impenetrable, the next morning, as if nothing uncommon had taken place. We observed, however,

that poor Clarice did not appear, neither did I ever see her again in the chœur.

I had to attend the confessional that morning, and, as I expected, Father Joachim pressed me closely respecting Clarice. It was right, I knew, to confess my own opinions relative to her case, but I was careful of what I said of those of others. I however let it appear that there was a sort of idea in the house, that Clarice had perhaps been too much tempted, and that it was thought that some of the symptoms which appeared so strange in her might perhaps have originated in terror. I also hinted that although, as a novice, I could not possibly return to the world, yet that there were other convents in the country; and that I knew one of the order of St. François de Sales, which had been highly spoken of. I threw out this hint on purpose, although I had already formed an attachment so strong for Pauline, that I had secretly resolved that I would not leave the house in which I then was, excepting in company with her. My reader, perhaps, may not understand, that a novice may change her convent-not so a religieuse, who has taken the black veil.

The father took no notice of this hint, but told me in confidence, that there was a something in the case of Clarice which would render it advisable for me to avoid her society, and not to speak of her among my friends. "We are willing," he added, "to restore her by kindness, if possible. And if the most earnest prayers of sinful mortals can prevail, mine, and those of the excellent lady Madame la Superieure, for this unhappy young woman, will, in the end, restore her to the bosom of her spiritual mother. But at present, my daughter, let the matter rest, and give us credit for desiring to use the utmost kindness which the eternal interests of the soul of the wanderer will permit."

I would have replied, but he dismissed me; and from that time, for several weeks, things went on much as usual. Clarice did not attend our public services indeed, or join us at our meals, but she was at large in the house, and I sometimes passed her in the gallery, though I never addressed her. Indeed, I could not have done so, had I wished it, for we were too carefully watched.

CHAPTER IV.

THE SECLUDED SISTER

ABOUT this time I had a visit from Madame Verani. The superieure accompanied me to the grate; we therefore could have no private conversation—indeed, all our discourse was upon the state of public affairs. I do not intend to mention the exact year in which I took the white veil, but it may be understood, when I say that it was coincident with the period in which the revolutionists of France, having excited furious and bloody tumults throughout their own country, first burst their bounds, and began to excite the same confusion in the Sardinian dominions as they had done at home. Madame Verani brought an account of their actually being in the capital, and of certain ravages which they had committed there; "but I trust," she added, "that they will not find their way to St. Siffren; it is so much out of the beaten track, so withdrawn within the hills, that we have nothing to fear."

The destruction made in the religious houses of France was then spoken of, and the abbess expressed great alarm, lest circumstances of this kind should take place in this country.

The sister Eustasie was to take the black veil in a few days; and Madame Verani asked the abbess if she would take care that she had seats to see the ceremony. I thought my friend spoke with a peculiar meaning when she asked the favour. I had learned to read books with some accuracy since I had been an inhabitant of a convent, but of course made no remark. She took occasion, shortly afterward, to ask me if I had formed any particular friendship in the society; and whether the young ladies were in general of foreign or Sardinian families.

"We have," I replied, "several French, one Italian, and one English sister."

"And who may this last be?" asked the abbess.

I was about to say, "The sister Clarice," but recollecting that the name always excited displeasure, I hesitatingly answered, "One, madame, whose father was an Englishman."

"Yes," she replied, "an English heretic."

These words were uttered in a low and bitter tone, but they were not lost on Madame Verani; however, she took no notice, and soon afterward took her leave.

I have said before that the ceremony of a profession afforded something like a holyday and a bustle in the house. The assumption of the black veil, however, differs so little in form from that of the "ceremonial des vestures," as the putting off of the secular garments is called, that I shall not enlarge upon it. This last ceremony is, however, still more solemn than the former, inasmuch as it is more irrevocable. But I was a spectator in this last scene, and therefore had leisure to observe more of what was passing than when I was the principal actress. I was so situated within the grating that I could now and then get a glimpse of Madame Verani, whom I loved better than ever I had done before. She was sitting next to the railing of the altar, on the right side of the church, and, from being thus situated, having the most perfect view of the opening from the high altar into the chœur, which was on the left side of the altar. M. Verani was seated at her left-hand, and on her right, was a young gentleman, who, for want of room, stood during the whole time of the ceremony, leaning against a pediment of one of the arches which sustained the roof of the church. It did not happen, however, that my attention was at all attracted to this gentleman.

I had never before witnessed the ceremonial of the black veil, and was in consequence deeply affected by it; but there were others in the chœur who had seen it often; and as forms, however solemn and well arranged, always lose their effect by repetition, so these were not affected as I was-they were sufficiently at ease to look about them through their bars.

Nuns have eyes as well as other people; and they will now and then talk nonsense, as well as persons of their own age in the profane world. Accordingly, when we came out of the chœur, and were at our treat in the refectory, the higher powers being engaged at breakfast with Monseigneur l'Eveque and the rest

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