I had been ordered to the south of France for my health, and had been stopping for a week in the town, near which the convent of Chaillot was situated. Its white walls could be easily seen through the trees around it, and from its windows the far-reaching sea suggested images of lonely and solemn grandeur, in unison with the secluded character of the pious inmates. From this institution, of all the passive virtues, came forth alternately bands of those heroic spirits, the Sisters of Mercy, who relinquishing the life of quiet inaction, which the convent induced, went with their hearty sympathy, their cheerful aid, and their unshrinking labor, into every abode where poverty, sickness, or even pestilence cried out for a helping hand.
Often a victim to this open-handed charity, this sublime self-sacrifice would be brought home to the convent, to breathe her last. But never was there a gap in these heroic ranks. As fast as one brave spirit fell, the place was filled by another, animated by her example, and eager to take up her cross. It was to this place, that the little Claire, taught by the example of Sister Martha, looked forward as to the fulfillment of her destiny. For this purpose, her education had, at the early age of fourteen, fitted her for a nurse; and in the convent she was called on, in all the little cases of illness which needed a soother. Nobody could spread a plaster so smoothly as Claire—nobody could place a pillow so nicely under the head as Claire—no one stepped so softly, spoke so gently, bathed so coolly, as Claire—none murmured so monotonously the rosary, or sung in a low tone the Ave Maria, so as to bring sleep on the strained eyelids, as Claire—and her gentleness and assiduity had entirely won the hearts of the good Sisters.
One day, it was late in the afternoon, I had gone down on the beach to walk, as my habit was, for some hours. The character of the shore for miles, which was exceedingly bold and rocky contrasted with the smooth expanse and soothing murmurs of the sea; and debarred by my want of strength, from scaling the rocks, as I longed to do, I used to wander on the white, hard sand, with a free feeling of delight, and an animating glow, that was second only to the sense of power with which the strong, firm step of the mountaineer springs from one cliff to another.
On the afternoon I mention, this effervescence of the blood, which induced a corresponding elevation and sensitiveness to the spirit, kept me in a perpetual state of enjoyment, which I did not attempt to analyze, but was content to feel. The sun had set, and the brilliant hues over the water continually broke in little rainbows on the crested waves. The air, balmy and fresh, was full of life. The birds wheeled and circled in graceful joyousness over the lapsing, and seemingly conscious ocean, which swelled and whispered its mysterious replies. For the first time I felt my own spirit in harmony with nature in this aspect. Formerly, an undefinable terror took possession of me at being left alone with the ocean. It was the same with the sky. Many a time I have glanced timidly at the depths of the sky, and shrunk from it, as if it were from the presence of the Creative Power; and always when the whole breadth of the sea stretched out his leviathan length before me, it awed and oppressed me to such a degree that I did not like to walk alone on the beach. Every wave, as it dashed up the smooth “untrampled floor,” had come laden with sounds of lamentation. I had continually thought, as I looked at it, how deceitful it was, in its beauty, and how its magnificence and pomp covered sorrowing, and wrecks, and heart breakings. But now, for no reason, all was different. The ocean seemed like a great angel of God’s mercy, beautiful, vast, and conscious. It married with the sky, and reflected all hues of beauty and glory, and sang out songs of praise to the Power that made them both. My spirit rose and mingled with the simple majesty of the scenery. I too felt myself a child of God, and could understand and worship him. In my heart were echoed the dim soundings of the sea; in my thoughts sparkled the watching stars, and the still lingering sun-beams. The transcendant beauty, above all form, yet which reveled in creative forms; the vastness and vague splendor of nature, in this view, all spoke of the Infinite in my soul. Deep called unto deep to praise Him, and I paced hurriedly to and fro, with an excitement and elevation of soul that rendered me insensible to the passage of time.
The water was already dark with the reflection of night, when a light touch startled me, as if I had received an electric shock. I looked up and saw a sweet, serious figure at my side.
“Madame is not aware that the evening is chill,” said she, gently.
“Chilly is it?” I answered. “It seems very warm.”
“You have been walking a long time—hours. Will Madame permit me to go home with her?”
She mingled the formal politeness of a stranger with the familiar tu that seemed induced by kindness and anxiety. I felt the feverish glow on my cheek, and replied, “that I had probably walked beyond my strength.” Already the re-action of lassitude and weakness crept over me, and I could hardly walk, as we turned toward the village.
“It is half a mile to the village. You are very weak. Permit me to attend you to the convent near. It wilt be no inconvenience. Lean on me, dear Madame.”