CHAPTER VI. Paris
But we wake in the young morning when the light is breaking
forth; And look out on its misty gleams, as if the moon were
full; And the Infinite around, seems but a larger kind of
earth Ensphering this, and measured by the self-same handy
rule. Hilda among the Broken Gods.
Not unfrequently the most important years of a life, the years which tell most on the character, are unmarked by any notable events. A steady, orderly routine, a gradual progression, perseverance in hard work, often do more to educate and form than a varied and eventful life. Erica's two years of exile were as monotonous and quiet as the life of the secularist's daughter could possibly be. There came to her, of course, from the distance the echoes of her father's strife; but she was far removed from it all, and there was little to disturb her mind in the quiet Parisian school. There is no need to dwell on her uneventful life, and a very brief description of her surroundings will be sufficient to show the sort of atmosphere in which she lived.
The school was a large one, and consisted principally of French provincial girls, sent to Paris to finish their education. Some of them Erica liked exceedingly; every one of them was to her a curious and interesting study. She liked to hear them talk about their home life, and, above all things, to hear their simple, naive remarks about religion. Of course she was on her honor not to enter into discussions with them, and they regarded all English as heretics, and did not trouble themselves to distinguish between the different grades. But there was nothing to prevent her from observing and listening, and with some wonder she used to hear discussions about the dresses for the “Premiere Communion,” remarks about the various services, or laments over the confession papers. The girls went to confession once a month, and there was always a day in which they had to prepare and write out their misdemeanors. One day, a little, thin, delicate child from the south of France came up to Erica with her confession in her hand.
“Dear, good Erica,” she said, wearily, “have the kindness to read this and to correct my mistakes.”
Erica took the little thing on her knee, and began to read the paper. It was curiously spelled. Before very long she came to the sentence, “J'ai trop mange.”
“Why, Ninette,” exclaimed Erica, “you hardly eat enough to feed a sparrow; it is nonsense to put that.”
“Ah, but it was a fast day,” signed Ninette. “And I felt hungry, and did really eat more than I need have.”
Erica felt half angry and contemptuous, half amused, and could only hope that the priest would see the pale, thin face of the little penitent, and realize the ludicrousness of the confession.