It was indeed Mary, and when Beatrix, distraught, raised towards her eyes flooded with tears, when she stretched out to her her trembling arms making to her an act of thanksgiving broken by her sobs, she saw the Holy Virgin go up the steps of the altar, re-open the door to the tabernacle, and sit down again there in her heavenly glory under her golden halo and under her festoons of thorn flowers.
Beatrix did not go back down to the choir without emotion. She went back to see her companions whose faith she had betrayed, and who had aged, immune to reproach, in the practice of an austere duty. She slid among her sisters lowering her head, and ready to humble herself at the first shout to announce her fault. Her heart greatly troubled, she lent an attentive ear to their voices, and she heard nothing. As none of them had noticed her departure, none of them paid any heed to her return. She threw herself at the feet of the Holy Virgin, who had never looked so beautiful to her, and who seemed to be smiling. In the dreams of her illusory life, she had grasped nothing that came anywhere near such happiness.
The divine feast of Mary (I think I have already said that this took place on the Feast of the Assumption) was celebrated in a mixture of of contemplation and ecstasy, the finest moments of which far excelled past celebrations of the feastday by this community of virgins, without stain or blemish like their queen. Some had seen miraculous lights emanating from the tabernacle, others had heard songs of angels mixed in with their pious canticles, and had, out of respect, stopped their singing so as not to disturb the celestial harmony. It was said that there had been that day a feast in Paradise as there had been in the convent of the Flowering Thorns, and, due to a phenomenon foreign to that season, all the thorn bushes in the area had burst into flower again so that, outside as well as inside, there were only the scents of spring. It was because a soul had come back to the bosom of the Lord, shorn of all the defects and ignominious shortcomings of our human condition, and there is no feastday in heaven more agreeable to saints there.
Only one thing disturbed for a moment the innocent joy of this flock of virginal doves. A poor woman, sickly and ill, had been sitting in the morning on the threshold of the convent. The nun at the entrance had seen her and had partially relieved her suffering by making up for her a nice warm bed for her to rest her weary limbs in, weakened by privation, and, since then, she had looked for her in vain. This wretched creature had disappeared without a trace, but it was thought that Sister Beatrix might have seen her in the church where she had gone to pray.
"Have no fear, my sisters," said Beatrix, moved to tears by this tender concern on their part. "Have no fear," she went on, as she pressed the gatekeeper sister to her bosom, "I have seen that poor woman and I know what has become of her. She is well, my sisters, she is happy, happier than she deserves, and happier than any of you could have hoped for her to be."
This answer allayed all their fears, but it was noted because it was the first severe word to come from Beatrix's mouth.
After that, the whole of Beatrix's life went by like a single day, like that day in the future that is promised to the Lord's elect, without boredom, without regret, without fear, without any emotions, for sensitive hearts cannot wholly do without them, other than those of piety towards God and charity towards Man. She lived for a century without seeming to have aged, for only the soul's bad passions add years to the body. The life of the good is an eternal youth.
Beatrix died nevertheless, or rather calmly fell asleep in that ephemeral sleep of the tomb that separates time from eternity. The Church honoured her memory by crowning her with a posthumous glory. It made her a saint.
Bzovius, who has examined this story with that solemn critical spirit that canonical writers offer so many examples of, is quite convinced that she was worthy of this honour by reason of the tender fidelity she showed to Our Lady, for it is, he said, purity of love that makes saints, and I would affirm, not with much authority admittedly, but in the sincerity of my mind and heart, that, as long as the school of Luther and Voltaire cannot offer me a more poignant story than hers, I will agree with the opinion expressed by Bzovius.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Legend of Sister Beatrix, by Charles Nodier