Six days had now elapsed since Flora Francatelli became an inmate of the Carmelite Convent.
During this period she was frequently visited in her cell by Sister Alba, the nun who had received her at the bottom of the pit or well into which she descended by means of the chair; and that recluse gradually prepared her to fix her mind upon the necessity of embracing a conventual life.
It was not, however, without feelings of the most intense—the most acute—the most bitter anguish, that the unhappy maiden received the announcement that she was to pass the remainder of her existence in that monastic institution.
All the eloquence—all the sophistry—all the persuasion of Sister Alba, who presided over the department of the penitents, failed to make her believe that such a step was necessary for her eternal salvation.
“No,” exclaimed Flora, “the good God has not formed this earth so fair that mortals should close their eyes upon its beauties. The flowers, the green trees, the smiling pastures, the cypress groves were not intended to be gazed upon from the barred windows of a prison-house.”
Then the nun would reason with her on the necessity of self-denial and self-mortification; and Flora would listen attentively; but if she gave no reply, it was not because she was convinced.
When she was alone in her cell she sat upon her humble pallet, pondering upon her mournful condition, and sometimes giving way to all the anguish of her heart, or else remaining silent and still in the immovability of dumb despair.
Her suspicions often fell upon the Lady Nisida as the cause of her terrible immurement in that living tomb—especially when she remembered the coldness with which her mistress had treated her a day or two previous to her forced abduction from the Riverola Palace. Those suspicions seemed confirmed, too, by the nature of the discourse which Sister Alba had first addressed to her, when she upbraided her with having given way to “those carnal notions—those hopes—those fears—those dreams of happiness, which constitute the passion that the world calls love.”
The reader will remember that Flora had suspected the coolness of Nisida to have risen from a knowledge of Francisco’s love for the young maiden; and every word which Sister Alba had uttered in allusion to the passion of love seemed to point to that same fact.
Thus was Flora convinced that it was this unfortunate attachment, in which for a moment she had felt herself so supremely blest, that was the source of her misfortunes. But then, how had Nisida discovered the secret? This was an enigma defying conjecture; for Francisco was too honorable to reveal his love to his sister, after having so earnestly enjoined Flora herself not to betray that secret.