strict observance of rules, the privileged
candidate is petted and caressed. No sacrifice
is too great to keep her. The rules are
relaxed; caprices are tolerated; eyes are
closed to defects of temper.

Some time after her profession, Sister
X., while travelling with two elderly nuns,
feigned to be overcome with sleep; and
indeed it was difficult to hear their insipid
talk without yawning. Believing her really
asleep, they soon gave their conversation
another turn.

"Can you comprehend, ma sœur," asked
one of them, "why they allowed such a
person as Mademoiselle de Boys-Crespin to
profess? A girl who would never be
obedient nor mortify the flesh, but lay in
bed without being ill, and out of pure whim?
She addressed the superiors haughtily and
free-and-easily; she kept herself to herself,
and even her confessor could make nothing
of her."

"I know all about that, ma sœur," replied
the other; "more than anybody else.
For my sins, I suppose, I had Sister de
Boys-Crespin for three whole months in the
laundry with me. I wonder she did not
drive me crazy. Sometimes she upset the
novices' discipline by larking—what the
world calls larking; sometimes she was so
ill-humoured and sulky that nobody dared
go near her. One day I gave her some
kitchen cloths to iron; she almost threw
them in my face. Another time, when
silence was to be kept, she took it into her
head to hum a profane song, an opera
tune; I gently requested her to hold her
tongue. All I got for answer was, 'You
won't let me sing? Eh bien! I will dance
instead!' And off she went, amongst the
tables, jumping and skipping, putting
herself into postures and giving herself airs—
really, ma sœur, she made me blush. The
other novices laughed till they cried. That
evening, a general penance was inflicted.
But Sister de Boys-Crespin went to bed;
she had a headache."

"I should like to know, then, what
made them keep such a girl as that?"

"No doubt, ma sœur, 'tis a very sad
case; but I have heard both Madame
Clarisse and Madame Hilarie say that our
house was greatly in need of her dower.
She was very rich. They talked of three
hundred thousand francs in ready cash,
and of a château, a real château, that would
come to her at her father's death. They
were obliged to manage carefully and have
plenty of patience and perseverance, to get
her to make her profession at all. At every
instant, the mothers superior were afraid
she was going to slip through their
fingers."

"Three hundred thousand francs; oh,
ma sœur!" replied the other nun. "Three
hundred thousand francs and a château!
That's something indeed! I can now
understand the reverend mothers' indulgence;
with the exception of Madame de Gronier,
I think, we have never caught such a
dower as that."

"I fancy not, ma sœur."

And thus, by pretending to be asleep,
Sister X. discovered the secret of the
complaisance with which Mademoiselle de
Boys-Crespin had been treated. It draws
from her the remark, that the convents of
the last century crumbled under the weight
of vice and sensual gratification; but that
those of the present, faithful mirrors of the
epoch, will sink beneath the guilt of
ill-gotten wealth.

Before very long, a change of house was
ordered, but not for the benefit of her
health. According to the usage of the
congregation, she was not informed where
she was going until just before she stepped
into the diligence, and even then she was
neither told the importance of the establishment
nor the name of its superior. A lay
sister went with her as travelling
companion, policewoman, and spy. At a
certain town, a young infantry officer got up
into the coupé, making the third passenger,
and filling it. Although she had assumed
what they call in the convent "the livery
of the world," that is to say, a lay costume,
to travel in, the lay sister's black dress,
their reserved behaviour and their monastic
manners betrayed them as religious obeying
orders. Once settled in his seat, the
officer tried to make himself agreeable. His
eyes sought to penetrate her thick black
veil; he addressed her in a few kind and
pleasant words. His voice reminded her of
times gone by. She answered by pointing
to her breviary. Bitter thoughts oppressed
her heart; the father she had disobeyed
and estranged, the lover she had sacrificed,
the miserable existence she had led ever
since she gave her confidence to that false
wretch, the Curé of Saint Marceau! The
burden was too heavy to bear without
tottering. Horrified by the retrospect, she
burst into tears. The lay sister tried hard
to make her stifle her grief.

"What is the meaning of this despair?"
asked the officer, interposing. "Are you
suffering, madame, under compulsion? Are
they conducting you anywhere against your