“I am to write out ‘Our Father’ and the ‘Creed’ three times before going to bed.”
“Do you know them by heart?”
“No, not very well. I make mistakes always.”
And the adorable man would then dictate to me “Our Father” and the “Creed” and I would copy it in the most devout way, as he used to dictate with deep feeling and emotion. He was religious, very religious indeed, this uncle of mine, and after the death of my aunt he became a Carthusian monk. At the present moment, ill and aged as he is, and bent with pain, I know he is digging his own grave, weak with the weight of the spade, imploring God to take him, and thinking sometimes of me, his little Bohemian. Ah, the dear, good man, it is to him that I owe all that is best in me! I love him devotedly and have the greatest respect for him. How many times in the difficult phases of my life I have thought of him and consulted his ideas, for I never saw him again, as my aunt quarreled purposely with my mother and me. He was always fond of me, though, and has told his friends to assure me of this. Occasionally, too, he has sent me his advice, which has always been very straightforward and full of intelligence and common sense. Recently I went to the country where the Carthusians have taken refuge. A friend of mine went to see my uncle, and I wept on hearing the words he had dictated to be repeated to me.
To return to my story: after my uncle’s visit, Marie, the gardener’s daughter, came to my room, looking quite indifferent but with her pockets stuffed with apples, biscuits, raisins, and nuts. My cousin had sent me some dessert, but she, the good-hearted girl, had cleared all the dessert dishes. I told her to sit down and crack the nuts and I would eat them when I had finished my “Lord’s Prayer” and “Creed.” She sat down on the floor, so that she could hide everything quickly under the table, in case my aunt returned. But my aunt seldom came again, as she and her daughter used to spend their evenings at the piano while my uncle taught his son mathematics.
Finally my mother wrote to say that she was coming. There was great excitement in my uncle’s house, and my little trunk was packed in readiness. The Grandchamps Convent, which I was about to enter, had a prescribed uniform, and my cousin, who loved sewing, marked all my things with the initials S. B. in red cotton. My uncle gave me a silver spoon, fork, and goblet and these were all marked 32, which was the number under which I was registered there. Marie gave me a thick woolen muffler in different shades of violet, which she had been knitting for me in secret the last few days. My aunt put round my neck a little scapulary which had been blessed, and when my mother and father arrived everything was ready. A farewell dinner was given to which two of my mother’s friends, Aunt Rosine, and four other members of the family were invited.
I felt very important. I was neither sad nor gay, but had just this feeling of importance which was quite enough for me. Everyone at table talked about me. My uncle kept stroking my hair and my cousin from her end of the table threw me kisses. Suddenly my father’s musical voice made me turn toward him.
“Listen to me, Sarah,” he said; “if you are very good at the convent I will come in four years and fetch you away, and you shall travel with me and see some beautiful countries.”
“Oh, I will be good!” I exclaimed. “I’ll be as good as Aunt Henriette!”
This was my Aunt Faure. Everybody smiled.