on them, in the first fervour of my newly-
awakened zeal, that I fairly flogged myself
down on the ground, flat on my nose, before
] had repeated more of the Miserere than the
first two or three lines.

I burst out crying, shedding tears of spite
against myself when I ought to have been
shedding tears of devotional gratitude for the
kindness of Father Deveaux. All through
the night, I never closed my eyes, and in the
morning I found my poor shoulders (once so
generally admired for their whiteness) striped
with all the colours of the rainbow. The
sight threw me into a passion, and I profanely
said to myself while I was dressing, "The
next time I see Father Deveaux, I will give
my tongue full swing, and make the hair of
that holy man stand on end with terror!"
A few hours afterwai'ds, he came to the
convent, and all my resolution melted away at
the sight of him. His imposing exterior had
such an effect on me that I could only humbly
entreat him to excuse me from inflicting a
second flagellation on myself. He smiled
benignantly, and granted my request with a
saintly amiability. "Give me the cat-o'-nine-
tails," he said, in conclusion, "and I will keep
it for you till you ask me for it again. You
are sure to ask for it again, dear child—to
ask for it on your bended knees!"

Pious and prophetic man! Before many
days had passed his words came true. If he
had persisted severely in ordering me to flog
myself, I might have opposed him for months
together; but, as it was, who could resist
the amiable indulgence he showed towards
my weakness? The very next day after my
interview, I began to feel ashamed of my own
cowardice; and the day after that I went
down on my knees, exactly as he had
predicted, and said, " Father Deveaux, give me
back my cat-o'-nine-tails." From that time
I cheerfully underwent the discipline of
flagellation, learning the regular method of
practising it from the sisterhood, and feeling,
in a spiritual point of view, immensely the
better for it.

The nuns, finding that I cheerfully devoted
myself to every act of self-sacrifice prescribed
by the rules of their convent, wondered very
much that I still hesitated about taking the
veil. I begged them not to mention the
subject to me till my mind was quite made up
about it. They respected my wish, and said
no more; but they lent me books to read
which assisted in strengthening my wavering
resolution. Among these books was the
Life of Madame de Montmorenci, who, after
the shocking death of her husband, entered
the Order of St. Mary. The great example
of this lady made me reflect seriously, and I
communicated my thoughts, as a matter of
course, to Father Deveaux. He assured me
that the one last greatest sacrifice which
remained for me to make was the sacrifice of
my liberty. I had long known that this was
my duty, and I now felt, for the first time,
that I had courage and resolution enough
boldly to face the idea of taking the veil.

While I was in this happy frame of mind,
I happened to meet with the history of the
famous Rancé, founder, or rather reformer,
of the Order of La Trappe. I found a strange
similarity between my own worldly errors
and those of this illustrious penitent. The
discovery had such an effect on me, that I
spurned all idea of entering a convent where
the rules were comparatively easy, as was
the case at Anticaille, and determined, when
I did take the veil, to enter an Order whose
discipline was as severe as the discipline of
La Trappe itself. Father Deveaux informed
me that I should find exactly what I wanted
among the Carmelite nuns; and, by his
advice, I immediately put myself in communication
with the Archbishop of Villeroi. I
opened my heart to this worthy prelate,
convinced him of my sincerity, and gained from
him a promise that he would get me
admitted among the Carmelite nuns of Lyons.
One thing I begged of him at parting, which
was, that he would tell the whole truth
about my former life and about the profession
that I had exercised in the world. I
was resolved to deceive nobody, and to
enter no convent under false pretences of any
sort.

My wishes were scrupulously fulfilled; and
the nuns were dreadfully frightened when
they heard that I had been an actress at
Paris. But the Archbishop promising to
answer for me, and to take all their scruples
on his own conscience, they consented to
receive me. I could not trust myself to take
formal leave of the nuns of Anticaille, who
had been so kind to me, and towards whom
I felt so gratefully. So I wrote my farewell
to them after privately leaving their house,
telling them frankly the motives which
animated me, and asking their pardon for
separating myself from them in secret.

On the fourteenth of October, seventeen
hundred and twenty-four, I entered the
Carmelite convent at Lyons, eighteen months
after my flight from the world, and my
abandonment of my profession—to adopt which,
I may say, in my own defence, that I was
first led through sheer poverty. At the age
of seventeen years, and possessing (if I may
credit report) remarkable personal charms, I
was left perfectly destitute through the
spendthrift habits of my father. I was
easily persuaded to go on the stage, and soon
tempted, with my youth and inexperience, to
lead an irregular life. I do not wish to
assert that dissipation necessarily follows the
choice of the actress's profession, for I have
known many estimable women on the stage.
I, unhappily, was not one of the number. I
confess it to my shame, and, as the chief of
sinners, I am only the more grateful to the
mercy of Heaven which accomplished my
conversion.

When I entered the convent, I entreated