CHAPTER V.
AMUSEMENTS.
Above the refectory door was painted in large black letters thefollowing prayer, which was called the "White Paternoster," and whichhad the virtue of leading persons straight to Paradise.
"Little white Paternoster, which God made, which God said, which Godplaced in Paradise. At night, when I went to bed, I found three angelsat my bed,--one at the foot, two at the head, and the good Virgin Maryin the middle,--who told me to go to bed and fear nothing. The LordGod is my father, the good Virgin is my mother, the three apostlesare my brothers, the three virgins are my sisters. My body is wrappedup in the shirt in which God was born: the cross of Saint Margueriteis written on my chest. Madame the Virgin weeping for the Lord wentinto the fields and met there M. St. John. 'Monsieur St. John, wheredo you come from?' 'I have come from the _Ave Salus_'. 'You have notseen the Lord, have you?' 'He is on the tree of the cross, with hangingfeet, nailed-up hands, and a little hat of white-thorn on his head.'Whosoever repeats this, thrice at night and thrice in the morning,will gain Paradise in the end."[1]
In 1827, this characteristic orison had disappeared beneath a triplecoat of whitewash, and at the present day it is almost effaced from thememory of those who were young girls then, and old women now.
A large crucifix fastened to the wall completed the decoration of thisrefectory, whose only door opened on the garden. Two narrow tables,with wooden benches on each side, formed two long parallel lines fromone end to the other of the refectory. The walls were white, thetables black; for these two mourning colors are the sole variationsin convents. The meals were poor, and the food of even the childrenscanty; a single plate of meat and vegetables or salt-fish was theheight of luxury. This ordinary, reserved for the boarders alone, was,however, an exception. The children ate and held their tongues underthe guardianship of the mother of the week, who, from time to time,if a fly dared to move or buzz contrary to regulation, noisily openedand closed a wooden book. This silence was seasoned with the "Lives ofthe Saints," read aloud from a little desk standing at the foot of thecrucifix, the reader being a grown-up pupil appointed for the week. Atregular distances on the bare table there were earthen-ware bowls, inwhich the pupils themselves washed their cups and forks and spoons,and sometimes threw in a piece of hard meat or spoiled fish; but thiswas severely punished. Any child who broke the silence made a crosswith her tongue. Where? On the ground: she licked the stones. Dust,that finale of all joys, was ordered to chastise these poor littlerose-leaves that were guilty of prattling. There was in the convent abook of which only one copy was printed, and which no one was allowedto read,--the "Rule of St. Benedict,"--a mystery which no profane eyemust penetrate. _Nemo regulas seu constitutiones nostras externiscommunicabit._ The boarders succeeded one day in getting hold of thisbook and began perusing it eagerly, though frequently interrupted by afear of being surprised, which made them close the book hurriedly. Theyonly derived a slight pleasure from the danger they incurred; for themost interesting portion was a few unintelligible pages about the sinsof lads.
They played in a garden walk bordered by a few stunted fruit-trees. Inspite of the extreme watch and the severity of the punishment, when thewind shook the trees they at times succeeded in picking up furtivelya green apple, or a spoiled apricot, or a wasp-inhabited pear. I willhere let a letter speak which I have before me, a letter written by anex-boarder five-and-twenty years ago, who is now the Duchesse de ----,and one of the most elegant women in Paris. I quote exactly. "We hideour pear or our apple as we can. When we go up to lay our veil on thebed before supper we thrust it under a pillow, and eat it at night inbed; and when that is not possible we eat it in the closet." This wasone of their liveliest pleasures. On one occasion, at a period when thearchbishop was paying a visit at the convent, one of the young ladies,Mademoiselle Bouchard, who was related to the Montmorencys, laid awager that she would ask him for a holiday,--an enormity in such anaustere community. The wager was taken, but not one of those who tookit believed in it. When the moment arrived for the archbishop to passbefore the boarders, Mademoiselle Bouchard, to the indescribable horrorof her companions, stepped out of the ranks and said, "Monseigneur,a holiday." Mademoiselle Bouchard was fresh and tall, and had theprettiest pink-and-white face in the world. M. de Quélen smiled, andsaid,--"What, my dear child, a day's holiday! Three, if you like; Igrant three days." The prioress could do nothing, as the archbishophad said it. It was a scandal for the convent, but a joy for theboarding-school. Just imagine the effect!
"She glided along rather than walked."]
This harsh convent, however, was not so well walled in but that thepassions of the outer world, the dramas, and even the romance oflife, entered it. To prove this, we will briefly describe a real andincontestable fact, though it is in no way connected with the storywhich we are narrating. We mention the fact in order to complete thephysiognomy of the convent in the reader's mind. About this period,then, there was in the convent a mysterious personage, who was not anun, but was treated with great respect, and called Madame Albertine.Nothing was known about her except that she was mad, and that in theworld she was supposed to be dead. It was said that behind the storywere certain monetary arrangements necessary for a grand marriage. Thiswoman, who was scarce thirty years of age and a rather pretty brunette,looked vacantly around with her large black eyes. Did she see? It wasdoubted. She glided along rather than walked; she never spoke, andpeople were not quite sure whether she breathed. Her nostrils werepinched up and livid, as if she had drawn her last sigh: touching herhand was like touching snow, and she had a strange spectral grace.Wherever she entered she produced a chill; and one day a sister seeingher pass, said to another, "She is supposed to be dead." "Perhaps sheis," the other replied. A hundred stories were current about MadameAlbertine, and she was the eternal object of curiosity with theboarders. There was in this chapel a gallery called "L'œil de Bœuf,"and it was in this place that Madame Albertine attended service. Shewas usually alone there, because, as the gallery was high, the preachercould be seen from it, which was prohibited to the nuns. One day thepulpit was occupied by a young priest of high rank, le Duc de Rohan,Peer of France, officer in the Red Musqueteers in 1815, when he wasPrince de Leon, and who died about 1830, a cardinal, and Archbishopof Besançon. It was the first time that this M. de Rohan preached atthe Little Picpus. Madame Albertine usually sat in perfect calmnessthrough the service; but on this day, so soon as she perceived M. deRohan, she half rose, and cried aloud, "Why, it is Auguste!" The wholecommunity looked round in stupefaction, the preacher raised his eyes,but Madame Albertine had fallen back into her apathy; a breath fromthe outer world, a flash of light, had momentarily passed over thisset face, then faded away, and the maniac became once again a corpse.This remark, however, made everybody in the convent who could speak,talk incessantly. What revelations were contained in this "Why, it isAuguste!" It was evident that Madame Albertine had moved in the highestsociety, since she knew M. de Rohan, spoke about so great a nobleman insuch a familiar way, and was at least a near relation of his, since sheknew his Christian name.
Two very strict Duchesses, Mesdames de Choiseul and de Serent,frequently visited the community, doubtless by virtue of theirprivilege as _Magnates Mulieres_, and terribly frightened the boarders.When the two old ladies passed, all the poor girls trembled and lettheir eyes fall. M. de Rohan was, besides, unwittingly the object ofattention among the boarders. He had just been appointed, while waitingfor a bishopric, Grand Vicar of the Archbishop of Paris, and it wasone of his habits to serve mass in the chapel of the Little PicpusConvent. Not one of the young recluses could see him, on account of thebaize curtain; but he had a soft and rather shrill voice, which theyhad managed to recognize and distinguish. He had been a Mousquetaire;and besides, he was said to be somewhat of a dandy, had fine chestnuthair curled round his head, wore a wide scarf of magnificent moire,and his black cassock was cut in the most elegant style. He greatlyoccupied all their youthful imaginations. No external sound pe
netratedthe convent, and yet one year the sound of a flute reached it. Itwas an event, and the boarders of that day still remember it. It wasa flute which some one was playing in the neighborhood: it was thesame tune, one now very aged, "Ma Zétulbé, viens regner sur mon âme,"and it was heard two or three times a day. The girls spent hours inlistening, the vocal mothers were upset, brains were at work, andpunishments were constant. This lasted several months; the boarderswere more or less enamoured of the unknown musician, and each fanciedherself Zétulbé. The sound of the flute came from the direction of theRue Droit-mur. They would have given anything, compromised anything,attempted anything, in order to see, if only for a moment, the youngman who played the flute so exquisitely, and at the same time playedon all their minds. Some of them slipped out through a back door andascended to the third story looking out of the street, in order to tryand see him through the grating; but it was impossible. One went so faras to pass her arm between the bars and wave her white handkerchief.Two others were even bolder; they managed to climb on to the roof, andat length succeeded in seeing the "young man." It was an old émigrégentleman, blind and ruined, who played the flute in his garret inorder to kill time.
[1] This Paternoster is so curious that the translator has quoted theoriginal.
"Petite Paternôtre blanche, que Dieu dit, que Dieu fit, que Dieu mit enParadis. Au soir, m'allant coucher, je trouvis [_sic_] trois anges àmon lit couches, un aux pieds, deux au chevet, la bonne Vierge Marie aumilieu qui me dit que je m'y couchis, qui rien ne doutis. Le bon Dieuest mon père, la bonne Vierge est ma mère, les trois apôtres sont mesfrères, les trois vierges sont mes sœurs. La chemise ou Dieu fut né,mon corps en est enveloppé; la Croix Sainte Marguerite à ma poitrineest écrite. Madame la Vierge s'en va sur les champs. Dieu pleurant,recontrit M. St. Jean. Monsieur St. Jean, d'où venez-vous? Je viensd'_Ave Salus._ Vous n'avez vu le bon Dieu, si est? Il est dans l'arbrede la Croix, les pieds pendans, les mains clouans, un petit chapeaud'épine blanche sur la tête. Qui la dira trois fois au soir, trois foisau matin, gagnera le Paradis à la fin."