"But," cried I, clinging to this faint glimmer of hope, "it is not yet too late; your novitiate is only over to-day; you are yet free. Renounce this austere life, dwell again with us, and our tenderness shall soften your grief."
Shaking her head sorrowfully, she replied:
"The cloister is, indeed, solitary for me, accustomed as I have been to your tender care; doubtless cruel recollections come over me, but I am consoled by the knowledge that I am performing my duty. I know that everywhere else I should be liable to be placed in that position in which I have already suffered so much. Your daughter shall do what she ought to do, suffer what she ought to suffer."
Without founding any great hopes on this interview, I yet said to myself, "She can renounce the cloister. But as she is determined, I can but repeat her words, 'God alone can offer me a refuge worthy of himself.'" Adieu, dear Clémence! It consoles me to see you grieve with me, for I can say 'our' child without egotism in my sufferings. Often this thought lightens my sorrow, for you are left to me, and what is left to Fleur-de-Marie? Adieu again; return soon.
R.
Abbey of Ste. Hermangeld.
Four o'clock in the morning.
Reassure yourself, Clémence! Thank God, the danger is over, but the crisis was terrible!
Last evening, agitated by my thoughts, I recollected the paleness and languor of my poor child, and that she was obliged to pass almost all the night in the church in prayer.
I sent Murphy and David to demand the Princess Juliana's permission to remain until the morrow in the mansion that Henry occupied usually; thus my child would have prompt assistance, and I prompt intelligence, in case that her strength failed under this rigorous, I will not say cruel, obligation to pass the whole of a cold winter's night in the church.