The Chevalier's daughter

by Lucy Ellen Guernsey

So my friends had not quite forgotten or forsaken me. That was some comfort, but I dared not say so. My aunt went on, growing more and more excited, till she ended with—

"And when I thought at least I should have you to help me at Fayrolles, to draw patterns for my embroidery, and sing and read aloud to me, I cannot even enjoy that."

"But indeed, aunt, I will do anything for you—singing or reading, or whatever you please," I said soothingly, for I was afraid of one of her fits of nerves. "There is nothing in my power that I will not do for you if you will let me, at Fayrolles or anywhere else. You know we agreed to work chairs upon satin for the salon, and I have several patterns drawn already."

"Yes, but you won't be at Fayrolles!" said my aunt between her sobs. And then, catching a warning glance from Susanne, she said no more.

Then I was not to go to Fayrolles! What did they mean to do with me? To send me back to England? That was not likely, after what my uncle had said about my having no choice. Probably I should be placed in some country convent, where I should be out of reach of all help, whatever happened, and where no one would ever hear from me again. This was what I dreaded of all things. I had almost given up any belief in the faith I had lately professed, and the question occurred to me whether I ought not openly to confess the change which had come over me. I knew only too well what such a confession involved—either a life-long imprisonment or a horrible death—perhaps being left to perish by inches in some underground cell, amid rats and vermin. Such things happened all the time.

Worse even than that, I knew that many of the convents were sinks of iniquity—places of resort for idle young gentlemen and wickeder women, like that of Port Royal, which afterward passed through so many vicissitudes. I am very far from saying that they were all of this character, but a great many of them were so, even taking the accounts of Roman Catholics themselves.* A residence in such a community was no pleasant prospect.

* See Racine's "Memoirs of Port Royal." Letters of St. Francis de Sales, and almost any free-spoken memoirs of the time.

And was I, after all, ready to die for my faith? Had I indeed any assured faith to die for? Might not Father Martien be right after all? My mind was tossed upon a sea of doubt and conjecture, and for a time found no rest; but at last I was enabled to pray, and to cast myself, more completely than I had ever done before, upon the arms of mercy. I asked for light and help above all things, and light and help were given me, not all at once, but by degrees. I became sensible of a sweet calm and clearness of mind, in which I saw all things more plainly. I felt sure that my many sins had been forgiven and washed away, and that when the time came for action, I should have strength given me to act for the best.

I had plenty of time for my own thoughts, for my uncle soon reentered the carriage, and after that my aunt did not venture to speak to me again, though she talked at me whenever there was a chance. She was a woman who bore discomfort of any kind very ill, and the more weary she grew with her journey, the more unbearable grew her peevish fretfulness. At last my uncle was moved to speak sharply to her, whereupon she fell into one of her nervous fits, and I had to exert all my skill to keep her from throwing herself out of the carriage. With much expenditure of coaxing and soothing I got her quieted at last, and persuaded her to take some refreshment, after which she fell asleep.

I fancy my attentions softened her heart toward me, for she was much more kind to me during the rest of the day, and I thought even interceded for me with her husband; but if so it was without avail, and even increased my troubles.