In the summer of this year an event took place which will render that summer forever memorable. The French nation, too enlightened to bear any longer those monstrous oppressions which ignorance of its just rights alone had tolerated, shook off its fetters, and the revolution was accomplished.
Madelaine was a firm friend to the revolution, which she was told had made every Frenchman free. “And if every Frenchman is free,” thought Madelaine, “surely every Frenchman may marry the woman he loves.” It appeared to Madelaine, that, putting all political considerations, points upon which she had not much meditated, out of the question, obtaining liberty of choice in marriage was alone well worth the trouble of a revolution; and she was as warm a patriot from this single idea, as if she had studied the declaration of rights made by the Constituent Assembly, in all its extent and consequences.
The Count de ——, who was informed of the correspondence between the two lovers, and who saw little hopes of his son’s subduing a passion which this intercourse of letters served to cherish, contrived means to have Auguste’s letters intercepted at the convent. In vain Madelaine enquired with all the anxiety of tenderness for letters. In vain she counted the hours till the return of the post-days. Post after post arrived, and brought no tidings of Auguste. Three months passed in the cruel torments of anxiety and suspense, and were at length succeeded by despair. Madelaine believed she was forgotten—forgotten by Auguste!—She consulted her own heart, and it seemed to her impossible; yet, after a silence of three months, she could doubt no longer.
Poor Madelaine now recollected with anguish, instead of pleasure that all Frenchmen were free. She would have found some sad consolation in believing that all Frenchmen were slaves. It would have been some alleviation of her sorrows if Auguste had been forced to abandon her; and she fancied she could have borne to lose him, if she had been sure that he still loved her—it was losing him by his own fault that filled her heart with pangs almost insupportable.
The little pittance which Madelaine, after paying her father’s debts, had left for her own support, was insufficient to defray her expenses as a pensioner in the convent. She had already, by her sweetness and gentleness, gained the affections of some of the nuns, to whom she was also attached, and who incessantly conjured her to take the veil. “And why,” she sometimes exclaimed, “why should I hesitate any longer in so doing? Since Auguste is lost, what have I to regret in renouncing the world? What sacrifice do I make? what happiness do I resign?”
Madelaine had no ties to the world, of which she knew but little: but to separate herself irrecoverably, and for ever, from him to whom her soul was devoted—to see him, to hear his voice no more—to take vows which would make it even a crime to think of him—to banish him even from her thoughts—alas! Madelaine felt like Eloisa—
“All is not Heav’n’s while Abelard has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart!”
Sometimes, too, the idea occured, that Auguste might love her still—“And am I then,” thought Madelaine, “going to reduce myself to a state in which I shall be forced to wish he were unfaithful, in order to save me from the agonies of remorse!”—She put off all thoughts of entering on her novitiate for some weeks longer—no letters arrived, and again her resolution to take the veil returned. “Why,” cried she, “why should I still continue to lament that inconstant lover who thinks of me no more! Alas, alas, did he not see the anguish of my soul at parting with him?—Does he not know the deserted situation in which I am left?—Oh, yes! he knows I have no other refuge, no other resource, than taking the veil—no doubt he wishes to hear I have done so—he will find in my renunciation of the world some excuse for his infidelity—Oh, heavens! will Auguste hear then that I am separated from him for ever without one sigh?—Ah, why need I deliberate any longer?—My trials will soon be past—I feel that my heart will break—yes, death will come to my relief—and in heaven I shall find my father!”
Madelaine, at length, determined to join the holy sisterhood of the convent. The white veil for her novitiate was prepared. The day was fixed; when, prostrate with her face towards the earth, and with flowers scattered over her, and a part of her long tresses cut off, she was to enter upon that solemn trial preparatory to her eternal renunciation of the world—of Auguste!