DISTRACTIONS
Above the door of the refectory this prayer, which was called the white paternoster, and which possessed the property of bearing people straight to paradise, was inscribed in large black letters:–
“Little white paternoster, which God made, which God said, which God placed in paradise.In the evening, when I went to bed, I found three angels sitting on my bed, one at the foot, two at the head, the good Virgin Mary in the middle, who told me to lie down without hesitation.The good God is my father, the good Virgin is my mother, the three apostles are my brothers, the three virgins are my sisters.The shirt in which God was born envelopes my body; Saint Margaret’s cross is written on my breast. Madame the Virgin was walking through the meadows, weeping for God, when she met M. Saint John.`Monsieur Saint John, whence come you?’ `I come from Ave Salus.’`You have not seen the good God; where is he?’ `He is on the tree of the Cross, his feet hanging, his hands nailed, a little cap of white thorns on his head.’Whoever shall say this thrice at eventide, thrice in the morning, shall win paradise at the last.”
In 1827 this characteristic orison had disappeared from the wall under a triple coating of daubing paint.At the present time it is finally disappearing from the memories of several who were young girls then, and who are old women now.
A large crucifix fastened to the wall completed the decoration of this refectory, whose only door, as we think we have mentioned, opened on the garden.Two narrow tables, each flanked by two wooden benches, formed two long parallel lines from one end to the other of the refectory.The walls were white, the tables were black; these two mourning colors constitute the only variety in convents.The meals were plain, and the food of the children themselves severe.A single dish of meat and vegetables combined, or salt fish–such was their luxury.This meagre fare, which was reserved for the pupils alone, was, nevertheless, an exception. The children ate in silence, under the eye of the mother whose turn it was, who, if a fly took a notion to fly or to hum against the rule, opened and shut a wooden book from time to time. This silence was seasoned with the lives of the saints, read aloud from a little pulpit with a desk, which was situated at the foot of the crucifix.The reader was one of the big girls, in weekly turn. At regular distances, on the bare tables, there were large, varnished bowls in which the pupils washed their own silver cups and knives and forks, and into which they sometimes threw some scrap of tough meat or spoiled fish; this was punished.These bowls were called ronds d’eau. The child who broke the silence “made a cross with her tongue.”Where?On the ground.She licked the pavement. The dust, that end of all joys, was charged with the chastisement of those poor little rose-leaves which had been guilty of chirping.
There was in the convent a book which has never been printed except as a unique copy, and which it is forbidden to read.It is the rule of Saint-Benoit. An arcanum which no profane eye must penetrate. Nemo regulas, seu constitutiones nostras, externis communicabit.
The pupils one day succeeded in getting possession of this book, and set to reading it with avidity, a reading which was often interrupted by the fear of being caught, which caused them to close the volume precipitately.
From the great danger thus incurred they derived but a very moderate amount of pleasure.The most “interesting thing” they found were some unintelligible pages about the sins of young boys.
They played in an alley of the garden bordered with a few shabby fruit-trees. In spite of the extreme surveillance and the severity of the punishments administered, when the wind had shaken the trees, they sometimes succeeded in picking up a green apple or a spoiled apricot or an inhabited pear on the sly.I will now cede the privilege of speech to a letter which lies before me, a letter written five and twenty years ago by an old pupil, now Madame la Duchesse de—- one of the most elegant women in paris.I quote literally: “One hides one’s pear or one’s apple as best one may. When one goes up stairs to put the veil on the bed before supper, one stuffs them under one’s pillow and at night one eats them in bed, and when one cannot do that, one eats them in the closet.” That was one of their greatest luxuries.
Once–it was at the epoch of the visit from the archbishop to the convent– one of the young girls, Mademoiselle Bouchard, who was connected with the Montmorency family, laid a wager that she would ask for a day’s leave of absence–an enormity in so austere a community. The wager was accepted, but not one of those who bet believed that she would do it.When the moment came, as the archbishop was passing in front of the pupils, Mademoiselle Bouchard, to the indescribable terror of her companions, stepped out of the ranks, and said, “Monseigneur, a day’s leave of absence.”Mademoiselle Bouchard was tall, blooming, with the prettiest little rosy face in the world. M. de Quelen smiled and said, “What, my dear child, a day’s leave of absence!Three days if you like.I grant you three days.” The prioress could do nothing; the archbishop had spoken. Horror of the convent, but joy of the pupil.The effect may be imagined.
This stern cloister was not so well walled off, however, but that the life of the passions of the outside world, drama, and even romance, did not make their way in.To prove this, we will confine ourselves to recording here and to briefly mentioning a real and incontestable fact, which, however, bears no reference in itself to, and is not connected by any thread whatever with the story which we are relating.We mention the fact for the sake of completing the physiognomy of the convent in the reader’s mind.
About this time there was in the convent a mysterious person who was not a nun, who was treated with great respect, and who was addressed as Madame Albertine.Nothing was known about her, save that she was mad, and that in the world she passed for dead. Beneath this history it was said there lay the arrangements of fortune necessary for a great marriage.
This woman, hardly thirty years of age, of dark complexion and tolerably pretty, had a vague look in her large black eyes. Could she see?There was some doubt about this.She glided rather than walked, she never spoke; it was not quite known whether she breathed.Her nostrils were livid and pinched as after yielding up their last sigh.To touch her hand was like touching snow. She possessed a strange spectral grace.Wherever she entered, people felt cold.One day a sister, on seeing her pass, said to another sister, “She passes for a dead woman.””perhaps she is one,” replied the other.
A hundred tales were told of Madame Albertine.This arose from the eternal curiosity of the pupils.In the chapel there was a gallery called L’OEil de Boeuf.It was in this gallery, which had only a circular bay, an oeil de boeuf, that Madame Albertine listened to the offices.She always occupied it alone because this gallery, being on the level of the first story, the preacher or the officiating priest could be seen, which was interdicted to the nuns. One day the pulpit was occupied by a young priest of high rank, M. Le Duc de Rohan, peer of France, officer of the Red Musketeers in 1815 when he was prince de Leon, and who died afterward, in 1830, as cardinal and Archbishop of Besancon.It was the first time that M. de Rohan had preached at the petit-picpus convent. Madame Albertine usually preserved perfect calmness and complete immobility during the sermons and services.That day, as soon as she caught sight of M. de Rohan, she half rose, and said, in a loud voice, amid the silence of the chapel, “Ah!Auguste!”The whole community turned their heads in amazement, the preacher raised his eyes, but Madame Albertine had relapsed into her immobility. A breath from the outer world, a flash of life, had passed for an instant across that cold and lifeless face and had then vanished, and the mad woman had become a corpse again.
Those two words, however, had set every one in the convent who had the privilege of speech to chattering.How many things were contained in that “Ah!Auguste!” what revelations!M. de Rohan’s name really was Auguste.It was evident that Madame Albertine belonged to the very highest society, since she knew M. de Rohan, and that her own rank there was of the highest, since she spoke thus familiarly of so great a lord, and that there existed between them some connection, of relationship, perhaps, but a very close one in any case, since she knew his “pet name.”
Two very severe duchesses, Mesdames de Choiseul and de Serent, often visited the community, whither they penetrated, no doubt, in virtue of the privilege Magnates mulieres, and caused great consternation in the boarding-school. When these two old ladies passed by, all the poor young girls trembled and dropped their eyes.
Moreover, M. de Rohan, quite unknown to himself, was an object of attention to the school-girls. At that epoch he had just been made, while waiting for the episcopate, vicar-general of the Archbishop of paris.It was one of his habits to come tolerably often to celebrate the offices in the chapel of the nuns of the petit-picpus. Not one of the young recluses could see him, because of the serge curtain, but he had a sweet and rather shrill voice, which they had come to know and to distinguish.He had been a mousquetaire, and then, he was said to be very coquettish, that his handsome brown hair was very well dressed in a roll around his head, and that he had a broad girdle of magnificent moire, and that his black cassock was of the most elegant cut in the world.He held a great place in all these imaginations of sixteen years.
Not a sound from without made its way into the convent.But there was one year when the sound of a flute penetrated thither. This was an event, and the girls who were at school there at the time still recall it.
It was a flute which was played in the neighborhood.This flute always played the same air, an air which is very far away nowadays,–“My Zetulbe, come reign o’er my soul,”–and it was heard two or three times a day.The young girls passed hours in listening to it, the vocal mothers were upset by it, brains were busy, punishments descended in showers.This lasted for several months. The girls were all more or less in love with the unknown musician. Each one dreamed that she was Zetulbe.The sound of the flute proceeded from the direction of the Rue Droit-Mur; and they would have given anything, compromised everything, attempted anything for the sake of seeing, of catching a glance, if only for a second, of the “young man” who played that flute so deliciously, and who, no doubt, played on all these souls at the same time.There were some who made their escape by a back door, and ascended to the third story on the Rue Droit-Mur side, in order to attempt to catch a glimpse through the gaps.Impossible!One even went so far as to thrust her arm through the grating, and to wave her white handkerchief. Two were still bolder.They found means to climb on a roof, and risked their lives there, and succeeded at last in seeing “the young man.” He was an old emigre gentleman, blind and penniless, who was playing his flute in his attic, in order to pass the time.