"Françoise, however—her heart nearly broken by the double loss of her husband and child—gladly availed herself of the fate designed her, to escape the reproaches of her father, and the taunts of her sisters, and threw herself into the convent of St. Ursule; where she took the veil at the very time her husband, recovered of his wound, was searching the country to discover her: but Monsieur de Colline had taken his measures too effectually; and at last, supposing her dead, he returned to England. At the old man's death, however, the letters the unhappy Henry had addressed to Françoise, and to him, were discovered by his Confessor; as likewise the Monk who had married them; and as her husband was then living, a dispensation was obtained, and sister Françoise, freed from her vows, returned with my father to England."
"Your father! O God, my brother!" exclaimed Louise, clasping her hands. "Tell me, I entreat you, if Françoise de Colline was really my mother!"
Sir Henry appeared confused—distressed: but at last said—"Seek not, my dear girl, the knowledge which cannot add to your happiness, but would plunge me still deeper in the gulf of misery. Your mother lives: and you shall one day know her. The time, alas! will too soon arrive, when every midnight deed must be brought to light: but, till then—let not the hand of Louise level an unnecessary shaft at my bosom!"
Louise could urge no farther; her anxiety to be satisfied on this subject, yielded to the visible concern and agitation her question had occasioned Sir Henry. She sighed, and a pause ensued, from which they were relieved by the Captain requesting her to proceed in her narrative.
"Little more passed," continued Louise, "between sister Brigide and Marie, than what I have related. The latter mentioned the miniature found with me, as a proof that must instantly confirm the truth of Brigide's allegation; but Brigide ridiculed the idea. She had seen the miniature, she said, it was not of Françoise: but Monsieur de Colline and his daughter were both too cunning, she added, to leave any proof with me, which must discover them; the miniature was a trinket, by which if ever they chose to reclaim me, they could; but a ring or a seal would have answered the purpose equally the same.—They were here interrupted by the arrival of another nun, with whom they proceeded to the refectory; whilst I, freed from the danger of detection, hastened to the cell of sister Françoise, and, throwing myself into her arms, exclaimed—'I am—I am your child; oh, do not attempt to deceive me, but say that you are indeed my mother!'
"Sister Françoise was at first alarmed at the wildness of my address, but, on my relating the discoveries of the morning, her agitation far exceeded my own.—'No—no, Louise,' she sighed, 'you are not my child: would to heaven that you were: but I am indeed widowed—and childless!'
"She wrung her hands, and, bursting into tears, sunk on her humble couch. I mingled my tears with hers; I strove to soothe her; yet still urged my claim to maternal acknowledgment. She referred me to the miniature:—'The resemblance you bear to it, Louise,' she said, 'must convince you it was done for a parent; but no likeness can be traced in it to me. Cease then to wring my soul by forcing to remembrance, scenes long since passed. I love you, Louise; but utterly disclaim all kindred with your blood. Be satisfied then with my affection, nor ever again renew this subject to me or any one!'
"Thus prohibited, I forbore to speak, but sighed in secret over the mystery of my birth; my mind by degrees lost its serenity, and I was apprehended to be in a decline; when the Marchioness de Valois came to the Convent. The friendship of her lovely daughters had before introduced me to her notice; she regarded me with an eye of pity, and proposed my going with her to Montpellier. The worthy St. Claire readily consented; and taking an affectionate leave of her and sister Françoise, for the first time in my life, I re-passed the gates of the Convent.
"What were my sentiments of the various objects I beheld, I shall leave to your own conceptions; all indeed was wonder, joy, and amazement! The amiable Marchioness, pleased with my inquiries and remarks, pointed out and explained whatever she thought worthy my notice or regard. She did more: she traced the grief which oppressed me to its source, and wiped the tear of dejection from my cheek. She taught me to look forward with hope, and to rely with confidence on the wisdom of Providence, which, in its own time, would develope the mystery that distressed me. The friendship of this amiable woman, the paternal behaviour of the Marquis, who joined us at Montpellier, and the amusements of that celebrated place, to me so novel, soon restored my wonted cheerfulness and health; and, after an absence of three months, I returned to the Convent; where the increased infirmities of mother St. Claire, and a fever with which sister Françoise was seized, called forth all my tenderness and attention.
"They were repaid by the restoration of this mother of my affection, and the mild serenity of the venerable Abbess; who, unalarmed, awaited the hour of dissolution, with a smile of confidence and peace, that anticipated the reward of a life passed in piety and benevolence. Her fondness for me appeared daily to increase; but, to my great surprise and satisfaction, she no longer urged my taking the vows, or even expressed a wish for my engaging in a monastic life.