“No; you will not be unhappy,” replied the abbé. He was exalted enough to see that Sister Claire had before her a great and useful life, and such people are to be envied, not pitied. They stood together at the convent door with clasped hands. It was a solemn parting, for each felt it was for all time.
“Good-by, my child. You will be happy,” were the abbé’s parting words. Sister Claire did not speak, but stood at the door watching his tall, thin, but still soldierly figure as it disappeared down the poplar-bordered lane. Purple shadows were falling upon the landscape, and the scent of the roses grew almost painfully sweet. Sister Claire lifted a pale, glorified face toward the opaline sky, where a new moon hung low, like a silver lamp, and her lips moved in prayer. Suddenly a bell clanged loudly four times behind her. It was her number—she was needed. She turned to go, and met the superior face to face.
“You look pale, sister,” said the superior, kindly. “These visits from the outside world are sometimes agitating. Have you heard bad news?”
“No, I have not, mother; I have heard very good news,” answered Sister Claire. “A person whom I deeply loved, I thought had been guilty of a crime; and I have this day, this hour, found that he is innocent,”—and she went upon her task with a face like an angel’s.
V
SOME Sisters of Mercy have one vocation—some another. Sister Claire’s was for helping the private soldiers, nursing them when they were ill, binding up their hurts when they were wounded, comforting them when they were dying, and even scolding them very effectively when they were in the guard-house. This patrician was never more at home than with Jean Baptiste, who marched away from home with a light knapsack and a heavy heart, and who did not always know enough to keep out of the sergeant’s black books. It was the Jean Baptistes whom Sister Claire loved, and she was loved in turn by them. She was very gentle with them when they were ill and suffering,—but when drinking and gambling and other wrongdoings came to her [Pg 110]notice, who could be more severe than Sister Claire?
“I am ashamed of you, Jean Baptiste,” she would say sternly to a vieille moustache, who had gone through a dozen campaigns scathless, only to be floored at last at the wine-shop. “You, whom I thought one of the best men in the battalion! What is to become of the conscripts if the older men act like you? I have a great mind to leave the army and go back to teaching young ladies the harp in the convent.” Sister Claire had not the remotest idea of doing this, but the awful threat struck fear to the heart of Jean Baptiste. The other sisters were kind—oh, yes—kindness itself—but Sister Claire was the soldier’s friend. The officers admired and respected her, and found Sister Claire’s influence of substantial benefit in the matter of discipline. But with these men of her own class she was more reserved. She was then more Lady Betty Stair than Sister Claire of the Sisters of Mercy. By that subtle freemasonry among classes, the officers knew they were associating with a person born to rank and position when dealing with her, and she used this feeling very artfully for the benefit of her poor soldiers. This woman, who would wait on sick Jean Baptiste as if she were his servant, would, unconsciously to herself, wear a grand air when face to face with his officer. She would ask a favor with the calm assumption that it must be done for her, very much as in the old days she would desire a cavalier to pick up her fan; and she would accept it with the graceful condescension of a great lady. She always made her requests in person, shrewdly surmising that to say “no” was more difficult than to write “no;” and it became a joke among the officers how completely they stood in awe of this slight, tranquil little Sister of Mercy. She did not cast down her eyes when she spoke to a man as the French sisters did, but looked at them so fully and brightly that the boldest dragoon of them felt like a schoolboy before her.
The rule of the Sisters of Mercy is a strict one; nevertheless, they are very wise women, and if one of their order displays a great and singular aptitude for a thing, she is allowed to follow the path so clearly indicated to her. So it was that Sister Claire never more taught polite accomplishments to young ladies, but worked steadily in her chosen field.
Her first duty almost was with the army in Egypt. She had then an ambulance of her own, and the little canvas-covered wagon was pretty sure to be close up to the line of fire. She went through the whole time of the French occupation of Egypt, including the terrible retreat from Acre, without a scratch or a day’s illness; but one of the last shots fired at the retreating French column struck her. The wound was severe, but she never lost consciousness while the surgeons were dressing it. All along the dreary road lay the wounded, begging to be carried along with the army and not be suffered to perish on the desert. And their cries and prayers so affected Sister Claire, who implored that they might be taken into her wagon, that the surgeon in charge gave her a dose of opium, which put her to sleep at the time and made her very angry afterwards.
The Napoleonic wars gave her plenty to do. She followed her dear soldiers to Germany, to Spain, and even a part of the way to Russia—she, who had seen the sun rise on the day of Austerlitz, also witnessed the passage of the Beresina. And by means which she never understood, but devoutly thanked God for, she succeeded in getting her ambulance across the river on that dreadful day, and saved the ten wounded men of whom she had charge. It was in the days of 1814, though, that she was of the most service. From the battle of Leipsic until the surrender of Paris, there was scarcely a day that she was not under fire. She was wounded three times, but all of her wounds were slight, and she lost little time through them. She was at Waterloo, and after working all night on the field, in the pouring rain, for the first time in her life she fainted away, falling among a heap of dead cuirassiers. When day broke, and the bodies were being removed, she was found there. Groans and sobs of grief went up—when Sister Claire, suddenly sitting up, asked:—