The abbess of the convent in question, Madame Cousin, was a fine, handsome, fat old nun, as affable and insinuating as possible, and gained on us at first sight. She enlarged on the great advantages of her system; and showed us long galleries of beautiful little bed-chambers, together with gardens overlooking the boulevards, and adorned by that interesting tower wherein Jeanne d’Arc was so long confined previous to her being humanely burned alive as a witch by our Duke of Bedford, who attended the execution! The window he overlooked her tortures from is still preserved in the square at Rouen. Her table, Madame Cousin assured us, was excellent and abundant.
I was naturally impressed with an idea that a nun feared God at any rate too much to tell twenty direct falsehoods, and practise twenty deceptions in the course of half an hour, for the lucre of fifty Napoleons,—which she required in advance, without the least intention of giving the value of five for them: and, under this impression, I paid the sum demanded, gave up our two children to Madame Cousin’s motherly tutelage, and returned to the Hôtel de France, almost in love with the old abbess.
On our return to Paris we received letters from my daughters, giving a most flattering account of the convent generally, of the excellence of Madame l’Abbesse, the plenty of good food, the comfort of the bed-rooms, and the extraordinary progress they were making in their several acquirements. I was hence induced to commence the second half-year, also in advance, when a son-in-law of mine, calling to see my daughters, requested the eldest to dine with him at his hotel, which request was long resisted by the abbess, and only granted at length with manifest reluctance. Arrived at the hotel, the poor girl related a tale of a very different description from the foregoing, and as piteous as unexpected. Her letters had been dictated to her by a priest, the brother of the abbess. I had scarcely arrived at Paris when my children were separated, turned away from the show bed-rooms, and allowed to speak any language to each other only one hour a day, and not a word on Sundays. The eldest was urged to turn Catholic; and, above all, they were fed in a manner at once so scanty and so bad, that my daughter begged hard not to be taken back, but to accompany her brother-in-law to Paris. This he conceded; and when the poor child arrived, I saw the necessity of immediately recalling her sister. I was indeed shocked at seeing her,—so wan and thin, and greedy did she appear.
On our first inquiry for the convent above alluded to, we had been directed by mistake to another establishment belonging to the saint of the same name, but bearing a very inferior appearance, and superintended by an abbess whose toleration certainly erred not on the side of laxity. We saw the old lady within her grated lattice. She would not come out to us; but, on being told our business, smiled as cheerfully as fanaticism would let her. (I dare say the expected pension already jingled in her glowing fancy.) Our terms were soon concluded, and every thing was arranged, when Lady Barrington, as a final direction, requested that the children should not be called too early in the morning, as they were unused to it. The old abbess started: a gloomy doubt seemed to gather on her furrowed temples; her nostrils distended; and she abruptly asked, “N’êtes-vous pas Catholiques?”
“Non,” replied Lady Barrington, “nous sommes Protestans.”
The countenance of the abbess now utterly fell, and she shrieked out, “Mon Dieu! alors, vous êtes hérétiques! Je ne permets jamais d’hérétique dans ce convent!—allez!—allez!—vos enfans n’entreront jamais dans le couvent des Ursulines!—allez!—allez!” and instantly crossing herself, vehemently counting her beads, and muttering Latin like a schoolmaster, she withdrew from the grate.
Just as we were turned out, we encountered, near the gate, a very odd though respectable-looking figure. It was that of a man whose stature must originally have exceeded six feet, and who was yet erect, and, but for the natural shrinking of age, retained his full height and manly presence: his limbs still bore him gallantly, and the frosts of more than eighty winters had not yet chilled his warmth of manner. His dress was neither neat nor shabby: it was of silk—of the old costume: his thin hair was loosely tied behind; and, on the whole, he appeared to be what we call above the world.
This gentleman saw that we were at a loss about something; and with the constitutional politeness of a Frenchman of the old school, at once begged us to mention our embarrassment and command his services. Every body, he told us, knew him, and he knew every body at Rouen. We accepted his offer, and he immediately constituted himself cicisbeo to the ladies and Mentor to me. After having led us to the other Convent des Ursulines, of which I have spoken, he dined with us, and I conceived a great respect for the old gentleman. It was Monsieur Helliot, once a celebrated avocat of the parliament at Rouen: his good manners and good-nature rendered his society a real treat to us; while his memory, information, and activity were almost wonderful. He was an improvisore poet, and could converse in rhyme, and sing a hundred songs of his own composing.
On my informing M. Helliot that one of my principal objects at Rouen was a research in heraldry, he said he would next day introduce me to the person of all others most likely to satisfy me on that point. His friend was, he told me, of noble family, and had originally studied heraldry for his amusement, but was subsequently necessitated to practise it for pocket-money, since his regular income was barely sufficient (as was then the average with the old nobility of Normandy) to provide him soup in plenty, a room and a bed-recess, a weekly laundress, and a repairing tailor. “Rouen,” continued the old advocate, “requires no heralds now! The nobles are not even able to emblazon their pedigrees, and the manufacturers purchase arms and crests from the Paris heralds, who have always a variety of magnificent ones to dispose of suitable to their new customers.”
M. Helliot had an apartment at Rouen, and also a country-house about four miles from that city, near the Commandery, which is on the Seine;—a beautiful wild spot, formerly the property of the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem. Helliot’s house had a large garden ornamented by his own hands. He one day came to us to beg we would fix a morning for taking a déjeûner à la fourchette at his cottage, and brought with him a long bill of fare (containing nearly every thing in the eating and drinking way that could be procured at Rouen), whereon he requested we would mark with a pencil our favourite dishes! He said this was always their ancient mode when they had the honour of a société distingué; and we were obliged to humour him. He was delighted; and then, assuming a more serious air,—“But,” said he, “I have a very particular reason for inviting you to my cottage: it is to have the honour of introducing you to a lady who, old as I am, has consented to marry me the ensuing spring. I know,” added he, “that I shall be happier in her society than in that of any other person; and, at my time of life, we want somebody interested in rendering our limited existence as comfortable as possible.”