Collected Works of Eugène Sue

by Eugène Sue

  “‘My dear daughter, you have been brought up in impiety. You are here in order to labor at your salvation. When you are sufficiently instructed in our holy Roman Catholic and apostolic religion, you shall take the eternal vows to enter our Order of the Augustinians. You will then be allowed to see your parents again. You are not to leave this cell before taking the veil. You will be allowed out every day only to take a little walk under the archway of the cloister, in the company of one of our sisters. It depends upon yourself how promptly you will have gained the religious instruction necessary to enter our Order, after which you will be allowed to receive your family once a week in the convent parlor.’

  “‘But, madam,’ I answered the Abbess, ‘I have not the religious vocation. Even if I had, I would not take vows without the sanction of my father.’

  “‘Your father is in heaven; He is our Lord God. Your mother also is in heaven; she is the holy Virgin Mary. Your obedience is due to those divine parents, not to your carnal and heretical parents. These have infected you with a pestilential heresy. The Lord, in His mercy, has willed, for the salvation of your soul, that you be removed from that school of perdition. The pale of our holy mother the Church is open to you. Come back to it. Be docile and you shall be happy. Otherwise, greatly to my regret, I shall employ rigor, and constrain you to your own welfare. Beginning with to-morrow, one of our brothers of the Order of St. Augustine will come to impart religious instruction to you. You are to have no intercourse with your parents before you have taken the vows. It depends, then, upon yourself how soon you will see your parents again. Think it over well.’

  “Without wishing to hear me any further, the Mother Superior left me alone.

  “The choice left to me was to embrace the monastic life, or give up the hope of ever seeing you again, dear father! dear mother! The bare thought made me shudder. I thought of resisting the orders of the Abbess. I thought that, if they were made to know my determination, they would set me free. Great was my error!

  “Towards evening one of the sisters came and proposed to take a walk with me under the archway of the cloister. I declared to her that no human power could compel me to take vows that would forever separate me from my beloved parents. The nun, a woman with a sharp and wicked face, recommended to me to think before speaking, adding that, if I obstinately refused salvation, they would know how to lead me to obedience by severe treatment. Our promenade ended, I returned to my cell. My supper was brought to me. I went to bed steeped in sadness.

  “At midnight I was rudely waked up. The old turning-box attendant came in, accompanied by four others, large and strong women. One of them carried a lanthorn. I was afraid. I sat up on my couch, and asked what they wanted of me.

  “‘Rise and follow us,’ answered the old nun. I hesitated to obey. She then added: ‘No resistance, otherwise these sisters will take you by force.’

  “I resigned myself. I started to put on my dress, but the nun threw upon my couch a sort of horsehair sack which she had brought with her.

  “‘That is the only dress you are henceforth to use!’ she said.

  “I robed myself in the haircloth, and was about to put on my shoes when the nun again put in:

  “‘You are to walk barefoot. Your rebellious flesh must be mortified.’

  “The expression on the faces of that woman and of her companions looked to me pitiless. I realized the uselessness of resistance or of prayer. Barefoot and clad in the haircloth I followed the nuns. One of them lighted our way with her lanthorn. We crossed the cloister and several long passages. A solitary low window, shaded from within by a red curtain through which a bright light shone, opened upon one of these passages. While passing the place I heard a man’s voice singing, accompanying himself on an arch-lute. The song was received with peals of laughter that proceeded from several men and women, gathered in the apartment. Their words reached our ears distinctly. They seemed to me to be such as no honorable woman should hear.

  “The nun hastened her steps, and we entered a little court. One of the turning-box attendants opened a door; by the light of the lanthorn I noticed a staircase that descended under ground. Seized with fear I drew back, but pushing me forward by the shoulders the nun said:

  “‘Go on! Go on! We are taking you to a place where you will meditate at leisure over your obstinacy.’

  “I followed the turning-box attendant with the lanthorn. I descended the steps of the stone staircase. The moisture froze my naked feet. At the bottom of the staircase was a vaulted gallery upon which several doors opened. One of them was opened, and I was made to step into a vault where I saw a box shaped like a coffin and filled with ashes, a wooden prie-dieu surmounted by a cross, and near the bed of ashes an earthen pitcher and a piece of bread on the floor.

  “‘This is to be your dwelling place until you shall have recovered from your stubbornness,’ said the nun to me. ‘If solitude and mortification do not subdue your rebellious spirit, recourse shall be had to other chastisements.’

  “I was left alone in the vault without a light. When the door was closed and locked upon me, I threw myself upon my couch of ashes. I was shivering with cold. The haircloth smarted me insupportably. The darkness frightened me. I recalled, poor dear mother, my own little chamber near yours, my bed that was so neat and white, and the kiss that every evening you came into my room and gave me before I fell asleep. I sobbed aloud. Little by little my tears ceased to flow. Numb with cold I slumbered till morning, the light of day reaching me through the airhole of my dungeon. I admit it, dear mother, and you will forgive my weakness, dejected by the sufferings of that first night, fearing I would be condemned to remain a long time in that dungeon, I resigned myself to agree to all that might be demanded of me. I wished above all to quit that gloomy place. I awaited impatiently the return of the nun, in order to make my submission to her. No one came, neither that day nor for about a week. I thought I would lose my senses. Every minute I shivered with fear. The very silence of that species of tomb inspired me with wild terrors. I moaned and called out to you, dear father and mother, as if you could hear me. I then fell down upon my couch of ashes, worn out. How sad was my soul!

  “By little and little, however, I became accustomed to my prison, to my haircloth robe, to my bread, black and hard. Calmness returned to me. I said to myself: ‘I am the victim of a wicked scheme. My parents have taught me it was our duty to sustain courageously the trials of life, and never to bow down before cowardice or slander. I shall perish in this convent, or leave it to return to my family.’ I now waited for the nun, no longer in order to make my submission to her, but to announce to her my firm determination to resist her wishes. Vain expectations! For about another week no one came near. Instead of weakening, my determination grew more exalted in my solitude. I spent my days thinking of you. Often did the tension of my mind become so strong that I imagined I saw, I heard you. I then was no longer in that subterraneous dungeon; I was by your side, at our house. Every morning at awakening, I invoked heaven’s blessing upon you. Then I would say to myself: ‘Good morning, father, good morning, mother.’ I would tell you all about my affliction and my sufferings; you encouraged me not to succumb in my cruel trial. Your wise and tender words comforted me. Then also my thoughts would wander to —

  “I have hesitated to tell you the truth. But you taught me to abhor untruth and dissimulation. I shall continue. Only, dear mother, I know not whether, when you receive this letter, you will still be a prisoner and separated from father. If, on the contrary, you are again together, perhaps you should not let him know the passage you are about to read. Perhaps, and it is my ardent hope, father is ignorant of the circumstance that he whom I called brother — did — in a fit of insanity —

  “My hand trembles at the bore recollection of that incident.

  “During that horrible evening, before your unexpected return home, before I could understand the meaning of Hervé’s words, he had himself enlightened me concerning the nature of the feelings
that I entertained for Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. I have no doubt of it, at this hour. It was love I entertained for him. In the depth of my prison, during my nights of affliction, I could not prevent myself from thinking of you, without my thoughts running to him.

  “That is the admission that a minute ago I hesitated to make. If that attachment is a guilty one, good mother, forgive me, it is involuntary.

  “My thoughts wandered in my prison, beloved parents, no less to Brother St. Ernest-Martyr than to yourselves, resolved, as I was, to die here or rejoin you. Suddenly a cruel thought, that had not before occurred to me, flashed through my mind. To live by your side would be to live under the same roof with Hervé! I attributed — I still attribute the occurrences of that fatal night to a temporary derangement of his reason. You, no doubt, withheld the incident from father’s knowledge. Hervé, once again returned to sanity, must have cursed his temporary aberration. His repentence must have moved you. One is indulgent towards crazy people! Nevertheless the mere thought of seeing him again caused me to shudder. The only hope that had hitherto sustained me, the hope of spending my life near you, as of yore, drooped its wings. It seemed to me impossible ever after to support the sight of Hervé. As I was a prey to these new and painful thoughts, one morning the door of my cell was opened and the turning-box attendant entered, followed by the other nuns.

  “‘Are you now more docile?’ she asked. ‘Do you now consent to receive the religious instruction necessary to take the vows of the Order of the Augustinians?’

  “‘No!’ I screamed. ‘You will gain nothing from me, either by persuasion, or force. I shall remain faithful to my belief!’

  “At a sign from the nun two of the turning-box attendants fell upon me. Despite all my struggles, my tears, and my cries, they stripped me of my haircloth robe, the only clothing I had on; they held me fast; and their two other companions flagellated me mercilessly. Shame and pain — my shoulders and bosom ran blood under the lacerating lashing — wrung from me a cowardly entreaty. I promised absolute submission. My obedience appeased my torturers. I was taken back to my nun’s cell. For a first proof of my submission I was to consent that very day to confess to one of the Augustinian monks under whose direction the convent stood, and one of whom was to be charged with imparting religious instruction to me. Towards noon I was conducted to the chapel. Oh, mother, what a surprise was in store for me! At the very first words that the monk, who occupied the confessional, addressed to me, I recognized the voice of St. Ernest-Martyr. I took myself for saved. I gave him my name; I informed him of our arrest; I conjured him to hunt up my father and my dear uncle Josephin, who surely must have remained at large, and notify them where you and I were held in confinement. Alas, my hopes were but short-lived! Brother St. Ernest-Martyr, himself an object of suspicion to the other monks and especially to the Abbot of the convent, was not allowed to go out. For several days he had been a prisoner in his own cell, which he left only to fulfil his ministry in the Augustinian Convent, which he reached through an underground passage that joined the two monasteries. I asked him whether it would be possible for him to have a letter reach my family. He doubted whether I would be allowed to write; furthermore, he did not, on his part, see any means by which my missive could reach its destination, such was the surveillance under which he himself was held. I narrated to him the recent ordeals and the trials that I underwent since my entrance in the convent. I heard him cry in the dark. I then entreated him to counsel me. He answered:

  “‘Sister, even if you experienced a decided religious vocation, and your parents gave their consent, even then I would urge you to reflect before pronouncing those eternal vows. But you have not that vocation, you are kept here against your will and without your parents’ knowledge. What is to be done under such trying circumstances? To refuse to receive the veil, as you have hitherto done, is to expose yourself to fresh ill-treatment and severities, under which you would perish; to enter a religious Order, even if forced thereto, is to renounce forever all tender family joys. Before deciding, sister, endeavor to gain time. I shall help you by urging upon our Abbess the necessity of delay in order to complete your religious education. Your father and uncle have undoubtedly set on foot inquiries concerning your whereabouts. Keep up the hope that their efforts will be successful. Your father will move Robert Estienne, and he the Princess Marguerite to obtain your liberation. Rely upon my ardent wish to be useful to you. It is my duty to console you, and to sustain you in your cruel plight. I shall not fall short in my duty.’

  “This, dear mother, was the advice of Brother St. Ernest-Martyr. I followed it. In the meantime it remained impossible for him either to leave the convent, or write to you. He dared not trust such a secret to any of the other monks. They would in all likelihood have betrayed him to the Abbot.

  “Alas, dear mother, yet another misfortune was to befall me; Brother St. Ernest-Martyr ceased to be my religious instructor. A few days after our first conference he was replaced by another Augustinian monk.

  “So many afflictions threw me upon a sick bed. I became seriously ill. By the grief that the absence of St. Ernest-Martyr caused me I realized how much I loved him. Of this love he is ignorant; he does not even suspect it; he shall never know it. My heart breaks at the mere thought of what remains for me to tell you.

  “The new Augustinian monk, who was charged to catechise me, inspired me with such instinctive repulsion that I could not conceal its manifestations. He complained to the Mother Superior of my ill will towards him. The Abbess summoned me before her, and notified me that, whether instructed or not, I was to take the vow the day after the next, adding that I would then be allowed to see my family.

  “I entreated the Superior to grant me one more day to reflect upon so grave a step. My entreaty was granted. I then reasoned as follows: To refuse to become a nun is to expose myself to renewed acts of violence and flagellations the very recollection of which render me purple with shame; it is also to renounce the only hope of seeing from time to time my beloved parents. On the other hand I feel that my love for Brother St. Ernest-Martyr will end but with my life; seeing I can not be his, to renounce him is to renounce the world, and all family joys. Why, then, not take the veil?

  “I was alone, without an adviser, weakened with suffering, beset by nuns who alternately resorted to persuasion and threats. I despaired of ever finding the means of informing you of my fate, good mother. I resigned myself to take the vow —

  “This morning the ceremony was celebrated. I was christened in religion with a sad name. I am called St. Frances-in-the-Tomb. To-night I am to spend in prayers in the chapel of the Virgin, according to the custom for maids who have taken the veil.

  “My vows being pronounced, the Abbess caused me to be supplied with writing material — paper, pen and ink — promising me that this letter would be forwarded to my family.

  “I am wrong for having taken so grave a step without your consent, good mother, and without the consent of father.

  “I break off at this place. The convent clock strikes nine. I am to be taken to the chapel, where I am to watch all night. May God have mercy upon me.

  “To-morrow, good mother, I shall finish this letter which I shall carry concealed in my corsage. I shall tell you then what were my thoughts.

  “Until to-morrow, mother. I shall then close my confidences.”

  The sequel of this chronicle will instruct you, sons of Joel, concerning the events that led to Christian’s coming into possession of the letter of the ill-starred Hena, as also of the following fragments of the diary written by Ernest Rennepont, in religion St. Ernest-Martyr, during the time that he also was held a prisoner under surveillance in the Augustinian Convent.

  CHAPTER XV.

  DIARY OF ST. ERNEST-MARTYR.

  “LORD GOD! HAVE mercy upon me! I have just seen the young girl. I have confessed her in the convent of our Augustinian sisters. She is imprisoned there. They wish to compel her to take the vows. Poor victim!

>   “When I recognized her voice; when, in the shadow of the confessional, I perceived her angelic face, my heart thrilled with an insensate joy. I then trembled, and wept. Oh, Thou who seest to the bottom of the heart of man, Thou knowest, my God! my first thought was to leave the tribunal of penitence. I did not deem myself worthy of sitting in that place. But in her distress, the child had only me for her support. She thanked Thee, oh, my God! with such fervor for having sent me across her path, that my first impulse weakened, and I remained.”

  * * *

  “To Thee, my divine Master, I make my confession. Yes; the first time I saw that young girl at the house of Mary La Catelle, as I was engaged in teaching the children at her school, I was struck by the beauty of Hena Lebrenn, her modesty, her candor, her grace! Without knowing it, Mary La Catelle rendered still more profound the deep impression her friend had made upon me, by recounting to me her virtues, her goodness, the truthfulness of her character. Yes; I confess it; since that day, and despite my reason that said to me: ‘Such a love is insane;’ despite my faith that whispered to me: ‘Such a love is guilty;’ despite all, the mad passion, the criminal passion gained every day a more powerful sway over my being. Our meeting to-day, by unveiling to me without reserve that ingenuous and charming soul, has forever riveted my chains. I love her passionately. I shall carry that love with me to the grave—”

  * * *

  “Impossible to leave my convent! I am the object of constant surveillance. Suspicion and hatred mount guard around me. How is Hena’s family to be apprized of the constraint she is placed under? The days are passing away. I shudder at the thought of the Mother Superior compelling her to pronounce the vows, regardless of the observations I made to her that Hena’s religious instruction is not yet sufficiently advanced. Were I sufficient of a wretch to listen to the voice of an execrable selfishness, I would rejoice at the thought that Hena, not being granted to me, would be none else’s after her ordination as a nun. No! Were it in my power, I would restore the unfortunate girl to her family. I would open the gates of the convent—”