When I first arrived at the priory, poor Sister Saint Sophie wandered around like a ghost, already far gone with pulmonary consumption. She entered the cloister while only seventeen years of age, wishing to offer the flower of her life to him who loves the fragrance of an innocent heart. Now, at the age of twenty-eight, she was called to exchange the holy chants of the choir for the divine Trisagium of the redeemed above. Her health had long been delicate; but the innocence of her soul, the natural calmness of her disposition, her strong religious faith, and her detachment from earth, made her look forward to death without the slightest apprehension. She spoke of the event as she would of going to the chapel where dwells the Beloved.
About a week before her death, she went to the infirmary, by her own request—to die. The infirmary is a commodious apartment in the second story of the tower, a room which most of the nuns shrink from approaching, for there they have seen so many of their sisters die. I went every day to see poor Sister Sophie. The room was adorned with religious engravings, a crucifix, a statue of the Madonna, and a holy-water font. On the mantel were some books of devotion, among which I noticed the New Testament in French. I always found this dying sister calm, excepting one evening, when her cheeks glowed with a burning fever. It was only a few days before her death, and was caused by her last struggle with earth. When that was past, she was ready to die. Her sister, longing to see her once more, had obtained permission of the ecclesiastical superiors to enter the monastery. But Sister Sophie, wishing to avail herself of this last opportunity of self-sacrifice, opposed her entrance; and it was this struggle between natural affection and a sense of duty which produced so violent a fever. This act of self-denial affected me deeply.
One Saturday, at about half-past eight in the morning, I was hastily summoned by the Mère St. J—— to go to the infirmary, for Sister Sophie was dying. I hurried down. Poor Sophie lay, ghastly white, with her crucifix in her hands. Her rosary and girdle lay, on the bed, at the foot of which was placed an engraving of the Sacred Heart of our Lord Jesus Christ, in the opening of which reposed a dove—emblem of the soul that trusts in the Saviour. She was perfectly calm. There was not a sign of apprehension. Her brother-in-law, who was her physician, stood by her bedside, and said she could not survive the day. Her confessor, the Abbé de B——, a venerable priest of more than four score years, asked if she had any thing on her conscience. She shook her head. Her soul was clad in its pure bridal robe, ready for the marriage supper of the Lamb. All went to the chapel, and, with lighted tapers, two and two, followed the holy viaticum to the infirmary. It was borne by the curé in a silver ciborium, and placed on an altar erected in the middle of the room. It was a most solemn scene—the nuns kneeling all around with wax tapers in their hands, their heads bowed down in adoration, and their black robes and veils flowing around them, all responding to the priest, who, in white surplice and stole, brought comfort to the dying. He demanded of the dying nun a profession of her faith; if she died in charity with all mankind; and if she were sorry, and begged pardon of God, for all her sins—to which she faintly but distinctly responded. He then gave her the divine viaticum, and prepared to administer to her the sacrament of extreme unction. As he anointed each organ, he said, before repeating the formula of the church, "O God! forgive me the sins I have committed by such an organ," (of sight, hearing, etc.) After this sacrament he accorded her the plenary indulgence of Bona Mors. I was very much affected by these holy rites, and the more so as I then witnessed them for the first time.
I went to see the departing sister several times in the course of the day. The death-struggle was long, but there was no appearance of suffering.
At eight o'clock in the evening, while we were reading the meditation for the following morning, a nun came in haste. "Quick! quick! pray for Sister Sophie. She is dying!" In a moment the infirmary was crowded with nuns. Sister Sophie was in her agony. The crucifix was still in her hand. A blessed candle of pure white wax was burning beside her, and the sub-prioress was reading solemn prayers for the departing soul, to which the nuns sobbingly responded. At the head of her bed stood a sister, who sprinkled her from time to time with holy water. Near her stood another prompting pious aspirations: "Jesus! Mary! Joseph! may I breathe out my soul with you in peace!"
At half-past eight she had given up her soul as calmly as if going to sleep. The Sub-venite was said, and then we all went to the chapel to pray for the departed.
The next morning, (Sunday,) on my way to the chapel, I stopped at the infirmary. Sister Sophie was lying on a bier, clad in her religious habit, with the sacred veil upon her head, and in her clasped hands a crucifix, and the vows which bound her to the Spouse of virgins. Her countenance was expressive of happiness and repose. A wax candle burned on each side of her head. A holy-water font stood near, and some nuns knelt around, praying for their departed sister. That day, masses were offered for her in every church and chapel in the city, and at a later hour the nuns said the office of the dead in choir. At four o'clock, I went again to the infirmary, to see her placed in her coffin. I have witnessed among those who are vowed to a life of holy poverty many examples of detachment from every thing the world deems essential, but I have never seen any thing which so went to my heart as when I saw Sister Sophie's coffin. It was simply a long deal box, unpainted and without lining. The body was placed therein, still in the religious costume. The black veil covered the face, and on her head was a wreath of white flowers. How bitterly did the nuns weep as they placed their sister in her narrow cell—even more austere than that in which she had lived! I too wept profusely to see one buried thus humbly, but perhaps suitably. The lid being nailed down, the coffin was covered with a pall, on which was a great white cross, and on it the novices spread garlands of fresh white flowers mingled with green leaves.
The nuns are buried in the cemetery of St. Oren's parish, and nothing is more affecting than when, at the portal of the convent, the coffin is entrusted to the hands of strangers; the nuns not being able to go beyond the limits of the cloister. It is then conveyed to the exterior church. Several priests received Sister Sophie at the door, and sprinkled the coffin with holy water, chanting meanwhile the De Profundis and Requiem aeternam. How awfully solemn are these chants of the dead! Every tone went to my very heart. The coffin was then borne to the centre of the church, where it was surrounded by lights, and the priests chanted the office for the dead, at the close of which they went in procession to the cemetery. First were three acolytes, the middle one bearing an immense silver cross, which gleamed aloft in the departing sunlight; and the other two bore the censer and the bénitier; then came the priests, two and two, chanting the Miserere. The coffin followed, borne on a bier by six peasant women dressed in white, with curious white caps and kerchiefs. Their sepulchral appearance made me shudder. Then went four young ladies bearing a pall, on which was the great white cross and the significant death's-head. Many other ladies followed in procession. Arriving at the cemetery, the grave was blessed, while we all knelt about it. Water that had been sanctified with prayer was sprinkled on the fresh earth; clouds of incense rose from the smoking censer, and Ego sum resurrectio et vita burst in solemn intonations from the lips of the priests. Then the coffin was lowered into the grave; the young ladies threw in garlands of flowers which were soon covered. Poor Sophie was at rest, and her soul was enjoying the reward of her sacrifices. I bedewed her grave with my tears. Never was I so peculiarly affected by any death as by this, every circumstance of which is fastened most vividly in my memory. The De Profundis and the Miserere still ring in my ear, and poor Sister Sophie, as she lay in her agony, surrounded by the spouses of Christ, praying amid their sobs, for her admittance into Paradise, will never be forgotten. "Requiescat in pace!"
But of all parts of the priory, I love best the antique chapel of the Immaculate Conception. It is entered through the cloister by a low, dim vestibule, supported by "ponderous columns, short and low." A few steps, and the arches spring lightly up, forming a perfect gem of a Gothic chapel, with its altar faithful to the east—
"Mindful of Him who, in the Orient born,
There lived, and on the cross his life resigned,
And who, from out the regions of the morn,
Issuing in pomp, shall come to judge mankind."