“And they are therefore wicked,” said the novice. “Is there any greater happiness than to be in the bosom of the Church?”
“Certainly!” answered sister Ursula, “here we are sheltered from the dangers of the world and of love, in which there are so many.”
“Is there any other danger than that of having a child at an unseasonable time?” asked a young sister.
“During the present reign,” replied Ursula, raising her head, “love has inherited leprosy, St Anthony’s fire, the Ardennes’ sickness, and the red rash, and has heaped up all the fevers, agonies, drugs and sufferings of the lot in his pretty mortar, to draw out therefrom a terrible compound, of which the devil has given the receipt, luckily for convents, because there are a great number of frightened ladies, who become virtuous for fear of this love.”
Thereupon they huddled up close together, alarmed at these words, but wishing to know more.
“And is it enough to love, to suffer?” asked a sister.
“Oh, yes!” cried Sister Ovide.
“You love just for one little once a pretty gentleman,” replied Ursula, “and you have the chance of seeing your teeth go one by one, your hair fall off, your cheeks grow pallid, and your eyebrows drop, and the disappearance of your prized charms will cost you many a sigh. There are poor women who have scabs come upon their noses, and others who have a horrid animal with a hundred claws, which gnaws their tenderest parts. The Pope has at last been compelled to excommunicate this kind of love.”
“Ah! how lucky I am to have had nothing of that sort,” cried the novice.
Hearing this souvenir of love, the sisters suspected that the little one had gone astray through the heat of a crucifix of Poissy, and had been joking with the Sister Ovide, and drawing her out. All congratulated themselves on having so merry a jade in their company, and asked her to what adventure they were indebted for that pleasure.