“Before answering you,” replied she at last, “let me ask this question: Do you think it allowable to consecrate one’s self to God in the religious life without a vocation?”
“Assuredly not.”
“And do you know what a vocation is?” said she very slowly.
Fleurange hesitated. “I thought I knew, but you ask in such a way as to make me feel now I do not.”
“I am going to tell you: a vocation,” said the Madre, as her eyes lit up with an expression Fleurange had never seen before—“a vocation to the religious life is to love God more than we love any creature in the world, however dear; it is to be unable to give anything or any person on earth a love comparable to that; to feel the tendency of all our faculties incline us towards him alone; finally,” pursued she, while her eyes seemed looking beyond the visible heavens on which they were fastened, “it is the full persuasion, even in this life, that he is all—our all—in the past, the present, and the future; in this world and in another, for ever, and to the exclusion of everything besides!—”
Fleurange, accustomed to Madre Maddalena’s habitual simplicity of language, looked at her with surprise, and was speechless for a moment, struck by her tone and her unusual expression, no less than the words she had just uttered. A deep blush suffused the young girl’s cheeks and mounted to her forehead.
“My dear mother,” said she at length, casting down her eyes, “doubtless it is not given to all to feel such love for God; especially to love him thus to the utter exclusion of all else here below; but,” she continued with emotion, “is not the voluntary sacrifice of all the affections and joys of the world a holocaust likewise worthy of being offered him?”
Mother Maddalena’s eyes resumed their usual expression of mildness: “Yes, assuredly, my poor child. I did not wish to insinuate a doubt as to that. How could I, in this house, open to all who suffer, and where among our sisters—and not the least holy—are several who have brought hearts crushed by the sorrows of life? But still, that is not the irresistible call of God which we consider a genuine vocation. And what I wish you to understand, my dear Gabrielle, is this: if I know you—and who knows you as well?—you are one of those whom God would have called thus, had it been his will your life should be consecrated to him in the cloister. It is not for one like you to vow yourself to him through discouragement or disgust of the world, or because its happiness has lost its enchantment. The struggle has been severe, I know, but on that account would you have it ended? No. Gabrielle, on the contrary, you must resume your strength to continue the contest.”
Tears came into Fleurange’s eyes, and she bent down her head with an expression of sadness.
“Oh! my poor child,” resumed the mother, “it would be much easier for me to tell you to remain and never leave us again! It would be sweeter for me to preserve you thus from all the sufferings that yet await you. But believe me, the day will come when you will rejoice you were not spared these sufferings; and you will acknowledge that she who is now speaking to you knew you better than you knew yourself.”