“Margot! what of her?” asked I, eagerly. “You did not tell me that you had tidings of her.”
The sallow cheek of the Abbé seemed tinged with a faint color as I uttered these words with unusual warmth. Whatever his feelings, however, they were quickly under control, as he said,—
“Margot has fallen,—fallen as never before fell one of her high estate!”
I could not speak from emotion, but by my anxious look I entreated him to continue. The recital, as he gave it, was a long one, but briefly told was this: Margot had been “prepared” by her sister for admission into the restored convent of the “Chaise Dieu,” and at length had entered upon her novitiate. This being completed, she had returned home, in compliance with the precepts of the order, to mix in the world and its pleasures for three months,—the abandonment of such temptation being accepted as the best evidence of fitness for the last solemn vow. Dangerous as such an ordeal would seem, yet scarcely ever is one found to fail under it. The long previous training of the mind, the deep impression made by a life of unbroken devotion, and that isolation that comes of a conventual existence, joined to the sense of disgrace attendant on desertion, all combined to make the novice faithful to her first pledge. The trial is, therefore, little other than a formality, and she who goes through it seems rather a martyr suffering torture, than a youthful spirit taking its last fleeting glimpse of joy forever!
To fulfil this accustomed ceremonial—for it was simply such—Margot came home to her father's house. The violent spirit of the Revolutionary period had given way to a more calm and dispassionate tone, and already the possessors of ancient names and titles were returning to the respect they once were held in. In the little village of Linange the old Marquis was now esteemed a high personage,—by some, indeed, was he placed above the “Maire” himself. To do his daughter honor was, therefore, a duty; and every one whose rank gave them the pretension, endeavored to show her some mark of respect and attention. Small as the community was, it had its dignitaries and its leaders, and they vied with each other on this occasion.
Margot had been a favorite, she was about to be a nun,—two claims which appeal to the heart by separate roads; for, while one exacts admiration, the other disarms jealousy. Thus, even they who would have felt the rivalry of her beauty as a subject of irritation, could now bestow their praises on her without a pang. This flattery of admiration from every quarter was too much for the brain of one whose chief fault was vanity. The splendor of her dress, the presents lavished on her, the worship which reached her wherever she went, all served to heighten the fascination; and while Ursule prayed and entreated her to remember that these were but as the flowers that deck the victim at the altar, she would not heed her. How could she? Was not the swell of approving voices which met her in society louder than the faint whisperings of her sister's admonition? How could the cold warnings of prudence stem the torrent of adulation that swept through her heart? She was conscious, too, of her beauty; and, for the first time, felt that its influence was experienced by others. The reputation of the lovely novice spread far and near, and strangers came to Linange to see and speak with her. The little weekly receptions at the “Mairie” were crowded with new faces. Officers from the garrison at Valence, and travellers, were continually arriving; and “La Belle Margot” was a toast pledged by hundreds who never saw her.
From Ursule alone came words of warning. The world of her acquaintance met her with nothing but flattery, and flattery, too, more palpably expressed than is usual, since used to one upon whom, in a few days, life was to close forever.
Margot was told that, to waste her charms on the dull world of a little village was an insult to her own beauty, and that Valence, which so long had heard of should certainly see her. She believed this, and accordingly insisted on going there. At Valence her triumphs were greater than ever; but there she heard that Paris alone could rightly appreciate loveliness such as hers. They told her, too, that it was an age in which beauty was sovereign; and the nation, wearied of a monarchy, had accepted military glory and female loveliness as the true elements of command. The will of the novice is a law at this period, and the old Marquis, who had now regained some remnant of his fortune, set out for Paris.
The most hackneyed in the world's ways knows well with what a sense of enjoyment he finds himself in Paris, the most brilliant of all the cities of the earth. The gorgeous panorama of life that passes there before his eyes has nowhere its equal. What, then, must it have appeared to the fresh enthusiasm of that young girl, eager for pleasure, for excitement and admiration!
At first her whole soul was bent upon the gorgeous spectacle before her,—the splendor of a scene such as she in imagination had never realized. The palaces, the military pomp, the equipages, the dress, were far above all she had conceived of magnificence and display; but the theatres imparted a delight to her beyond all the rest. The ideal world that she saw there typified a world of passionate feeling, of love, joy, ambition, and triumph! What a glorious contrast to the grave-like stillness of the convent,—to the living death of a poor nun's existence! It is true, she had been taught to regard these things as sinful, and as the base conceptions of a depraved nature; she had even come to witness them to confirm the abhorrence in which she held them, and show that they appealed to no one sentiment of her heart. Alas! the experiment was destined to prove too costly.