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A ROMANCE OF THE CLOISTER.

BY MRS.

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EVERETT.

'YES, I will; I will take the veil! I will profess at the Sacré Cœur, and there, amid those sacred scenes, I shall be free from the taunts of my cousin and the reluctant bounty of my aunt. Alas! why was I born to this! Oh, Holy VIRGIN! give me grace to imitate THEE in thy fortitude under affliction!'

Thus soliloquized Rose de Biragues as she sat in her little room, her hand resting upon the open page of her diary, where she had just recorded a detailed account of slights and insults innumerable, which for many a weary day she had received at the hands of her aunt and cousin. Rose de Biragues was the orphan-niece of Madame de Férolles, the widow of a rich banker, residing a short distance from Caen, one of the largest and most flourishing towns in La Belle Normandie.' Louis de Biragues, the father of Rose, and the only brother of Madame de Férolles, displeased his worldly and ambitious sister by marrying early in life a charming girl, with no dower but her beauty. For two years he led a life of unalloyed happiness; but ere the third anniversary of their blissful union he was called upon to mourn the early death of his beloved wife, which left him inconsolable. Not even the newlyawakened tenderness of a father's love could arouse him from his despondency, and in a few months the sod of the parish church-yard was once more upturned to make room for him beside his wife. He bequeathed the infant Rose to Madame de Férolles, begging her to remember that she was the child of the brother she had once fondly loved, and do by her as she would by her own; but time had long since weakened Madame de Férolles' early love for Louis, and she only remembered that the infant committed to her care was the child of the despised Rose Deville.

But in spite of neglect and want of affection, Rose de Biragues grew to womanhood, and promised to be as beautiful as her cousin Marie de Férolles was plain and gauche. Many were the slights the poor girl would have to endure, as a casual comparison, drawn by some unprejudiced person between the merits of the two cousins, would reach the ears of Madame de Férolles; and so continued were the annoyances, that at last the poor girl in desperation determined to take the veil. Marie de Férolles and her mother both highly approved of Rose's resolution, and never were they so kind as when assisting her to prepare for the eventful step which would relieve them of her forever.

It was now winter, and it was decided that Rose should enter as Vostulante until after Christmas, when she was to make her profession as novice. It was the day before the celebration of that great feast of the Nativity, which brings forth in all its glory the almost imperial splendor of the Catholic church, that Rose de Biragues entered as an

inmate of the convent; and although a Catholic from her birth, she had never seen any greater display than was exhibited at the parish church. Judge then of her emotion when she entered the superb establishment where dwelt Les dames du Sacré Cœur de Jésus. The convent, formerly a palace of the ancient régime, was in the form of a hollow square, the building extending round three sides of a court, paved with tesselated green and white marble, in the centre of which a sparkling fountain scattered its waters from the graceful bells of a branch of the Egyptian Lotus, held by a sea-nymph. The porters at the gate received the young girl, and led her through an arched cloister to a suite of six rooms, each larger than the other. The walls had formerly been decorated with superb mirrors, and finished landscapes filled up the intermediate panels; but the picty of the nuns, and the strict laws of the convent, which forbids a glass of any kind throughout the establishment, had removed the mirrors, and caused the exquisite paintings to be covered with a preparation similar to the rest of the walls. But the white and gilded Louis Quatorze mouldings still left enough of beauty to dazzle even the sophisticated eye; and as the gaze of Rose de Biragues wandered from one vast salon to another, and still further, until through an immense bow-window she saw the highly cultivated grounds of the convent stretching afar off in the distance, she said to herself: How different from what I anticipated! Here there is nothing gloomy; and if the nuns are kind to me, I shall certainly be happy.' As she thus mused, a gentle voice fell upon her ear, and a soft Welcome, my daughter, to this abode of peace,' brought Rose in a moment to the feet of the Superior; and the Bless me, my mother!' which burst from her over-charged heart, spoke volumes. After an earnest benediction the Superior gently raised her, and seating her by her side, spoke to her of the high and holy vows she intended taking upon herself; of the peace that the world cannot give; and as Rose became subdued and tranquillized, she felt that it was a blessed thing that the treatment of her relatives had driven her to such a holy and peaceful asylum.

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While still engaged in this conversation the bell sounded for the Angelus; and bidding Rose follow her, the Superior led the way through a lofty hall, whose arched ceiling was supported by twelve colossal pillars of pale green marble, forming a vestibule of rare beauty, to a cloistered corridor, which they entered, and in a few moments reached the chapel, which was already decorated for the midnight mass of Christmas Eve. The chapel was of dark oak, lighted by a dome of stained glass directly above the altar, whose white marble surface caught the last rays of the setting sun, as it fell in myriad gorgeous colors upon the golden candlesticks and the clustering flowers; and one glittering beam rested on the diamond wreath that encircled the ôstensoir, which was that night to receive the miraculous wafer transformed into a real SAVIOUR.

While the nuns repeated the customary prayers, Rose could not refrain from looking about her. The convent was one of great wealth, and all the paraphernalia of the altar was superb; many of the pieces being presents from princesses of royal blood. Immediately behind

the altar was a magnificent picture, representing our SAVIOUR holding his sacred bleeding heart in hand, and hosts of saints and angels kneeling in adoration at the precious sight. The ever-burning alabaster lamp, filled with perfumed oil, shed a dim light upon the kneeling figures of the nuns, and the peaceful happy expression of their faces filled the soul of Rose with indescribably blissful emotions.

Week passed after week, each one finding Rose happier than the last. The tranquil, soothing atmosphere of all around, and the numerous religious duties that occupied her time, left not a moment for regret, and she prepared with alacrity for her profession as novice.

Shortly after she had taken the veil, it was thought expedient by the Mere Générale to make a transfer of nuns from the convent at Caen to the one of the same order at Rome, and the Sour Marie Rose was among the number. Although the nuns kept much to themselves during their journey, still it was impossible to avoid occasional contact with their fellow travellers; and during their passage in the vessel from Marseilles to Leghorn, the exquisite embroidery, which was the daily employment of the nuns, attracted the passengers to their frames, and the elder ladies entered freely into conversation with both gentlemen and ladies. But among them was one who found that the sweet face of the young novice was far more attractive than the glittering embroidery which grew beneath her fair fingers, and each day found Alfred de Beaujeu forming one of the coterie that assembled round the nuns. Tall and eminently handsome, his dark eyes beaming with intelligence and sensibility, his manner deferential in the highest degree, his whole bearing was so prepossessing, that from captain to sailor, from old to young, he was a universal favorite. Sœur Thérèse, who was nearly seventy, and had never been accused of beauty, openly praised him, without any fear of her encomiums causing ill-natured remarks, and regretted that such a fine young man had not the vocation for a priest. And Rose, what did she think? Though her lips were silent, her eyes were eloquent, and the young man interpreted their language as he hoped. Not a word had they ever exchanged; never had they been for a moment alone; still they both felt and knew that they loved, and with both the realization of the fact afforded unutterable joy. Rose the sensation was so perfectly novel, that she did not even feel that she was doing wrong; she was content to live upon the bliss of the present, and not think of the future. Indeed, a thought beyond the perfect Elysium of her present state never crossed her mind; the very fact of her not expressing it, deepened its intensity; but with De Beaujeu the joy of being beloved was chastened by doubt and sadness. Unlike Rose, he looked into the future; he longed to call her his own, his wife. But what! she was already the bride of the church, and a church jealous of its votaries. The voice of scandal would be raised, and in no Catholic country could they be even secure. Still he reflected as little as possible upon the dark side of the picture, trusting that something might occur which would point out some means of accomplishing his wishes. How devoutly he longed for a shipwreck! but wind and tide proved favorable, and they soon dropped anchor in the busy port of Leghorn. The nuns were here to take a private con

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veyance to Rome, and they were about to part! Could he let her go without a single word of farewell? No! he must express his feelings, and then mature his plans for gaining her for his wife.

As the four nuns stepped into the carriage that was to convey them on their journey, Alfred de Beaujeu approached with four superb bouquets, which he presented to the ladies as he made his adieux; and the three were so much occupied in admiring their own, and expatiating upon his politeness, (for nuns are but women,) that they failed to observe that the one held by the young novice was far more recherché and beautiful than their own; and Rose saw with a blushing cheek and fluttering heart the white corner of a note peeping from among the clustering leaves. The bouquets were still odorous, though somewhat faded, when they reached the Eternal City, and the moment she reached her cell, with failing fingers she unwound the blue ribbon, and read with tearful eyes and throbbing heart the first words of love. What bliss upon earth is comparable to this? The rapture of avowal is unutterable; but when we behold in tangible evidence the blissful fact, when we read and re-read the burning words, they seem graven upon our heart of hearts, and we feel that even the rose-leaf would o'erflow the cup of happiness.

CHAPTER SECOND.

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'HAVE you heard the news, Gaston?' said a young exquisite to his friend, as they sipped an iced sherbet at Tortoni's, the lionnes and the pantherès are tempted to march on an embassy to the Holy Father, to petition him to forbid such perversion of talents. Good heavens! Alfred de Beaujeu a cowled priest!'

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What!' exclaimed Gaston de Montaign, starting to his feet, Alfred de Beaujeu a priest! the richest, most distingué man in Paris; from the Faubourg St. Germain to the Chauseé d'Antin, the man of all others the most admired! You surely are joking.'

'Ma foi, no! I wish it were a joke; for, somehow, one was never jealous of de Beaujeu.'

'But what is, what has been the cause? Has he lost his fortune? has Blanche de Courcy refused him?'

No, his fortune is as large as ever, and Blanche de Courcy would willingly be Blanche de Beaujeu! But he has written to Blanche, stating that he trusts she will not think it capricious or unkind in him refusing to fulfil the contract entered into by their parents, saying that as they have met but twice, he cannot flatter himself that she will feel any personal disappointment at his resolution to enter upon a priestly life, and settles upon her half his fortune; the rest is given to the Society. of Jesus.'

'But still there must be a cause. A man with all the personal and numerous other advantages of Alfred de Beaujeu, scarcely twenty-five years of age, would not be fool enough to resign them all to become a priest; and he was never a devôt !'

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Ecoutez, Gaston, and I will tell you a private bit of scandal told me in confidence by de Brézé, who made a voyage from Marseilles to Leg

horn, last year, with de Beaujeu. There was a party of nuns of the Sacré Cœur on board, and one of them de Brézé describes as the most beautiful creature he ever beheld: a complexion like the inner petals of the blush rose, eyes of heaven's own blue, and I know not what other extravagant similes he used; but, enfin, she was perfect; of a style totally different from Alfred; and, moreover, she had that purity and fieucheur, so captivating to a man so much in the world as de Beaujeu. De Brézé declares the nun was as much bewitched as poor Alfred; and my private inference is, that de Beaujeu, finding it impossible to obtain a dispensation, or to induce the lady to break her vows, has determined to turn priest himself. You know whatever he undertook he pursued with his whole soul, and he has probably fallen in love with the same ardor.'

Well, poor Alfred! these women do play the deuce with us. Adieu! I'm off to Fanny's. I suppose she will send me to the Morgue or la Trappe one of these days!"

The gay speculation of the young exquisite was correct. When Rose had somewhat recovered from the fascinating influence of de Beaujeu's letter, the words, Dearest Rose, I long to call you wife!' struck her in all their force. She, the bride of CHRIST, who had vowed to receive none but him for her bridegroom! She thought of the anathemas the Bishop had uttered against those who dishonored both the Church and themselves by receding from the paths of righteousness; of the aversion the nuns would feel toward her, did they but know of the letter she had received. The conflict was tremendous; and throwing herself before the statue of the VIRGIN that occupied a niche of her cell, she burst into a long and passionate flood of tears. Before she arose, her resolution was taken. She would banish him from her heart; he should be to her as though he had never existed. Could a love that caused her such unhappiness be equal to the religion that, before her fatal journey, had filled her with such joy and peace? Oh, no! She dedicated herself again to the Blessed Mother, and rose a suffering woman, with a crushed and broken heart. Months passed on, and more than once had Alfred contrived means to forward letters to her without the knowledge of the nuns, but with the resolution of a martyr she destroyed them without breaking the seal, and after each, applied herself more and more strenuously to her devotions. But the affections are the great support of life, and outraged Love will triumph even in the death of its victim! Constant austerities and continual suppression of every thought of Alfred wore upon the delicate frame of the lovely nun, and Consumption claimed her as his prey. Never, as yet, had Rose summoned sufficient resolution to narrate to her confessor the occurrences of her eventful journey; but now she felt that she was dying, that ere many weeks her name would be but a memory, and she felt she could die more calmly should she unburden her whole heart to her spiritual father. The gray pall of evening was setting over the horizon, when Rose, pale and emaciated, but still beautiful, entered the confessional. With choking voice she finished the 'mia culpa,' and proceeded to narrate the whole course of her feelings, from the time of her first meeting de Beaujeu; and so absorbed was

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