Chapter XIX Mother Sainte Anne
It was about four o’clock in the afternoon, and the shadows of the tall houses of the Rue des Jardins reached already the middle of the narrow street, as an old gentleman in the garb of half a century ago passed along the shady side and entered the open gate of the Ursuline Convent. He was a tall man, not handsome, but of an erect bearing and distinguished appearance; and the fashion of his frock coat of fine homespun, his beaver hat and black stock, together with his carefully trimmed grey hair and whiskers, proclaimed him a country dandy of a former generation, dressed for Church, or to pay a visit of importance to his lady love.
It was more than forty years since he had last paid such a visit, and the costume of that occasion had reposed in the bottom of an old cedar box during all those years. But now he wore it with pride and dignity; and carried his light malacca cane with something of the swagger of former days, when he had thought himself as good as any of the young bloods of Quebec, not excepting the army officers, who trusted overmuch in the grandeur of their red uniforms to win the ladies’ hearts. Was he not a cadet of a good family; son of the seigneur of Ste. Famille on the Island; and had he not the right to hold up his head among the best? Indeed, whether he had the right or not, he was accustomed to do so by virtue of his consciousness of personal merit and his strong right hand. Evidently, the old gentleman had been a force to be reckoned with; and even now the memory of a bygone glory seemed to linger about him, commanding the respect and deference of all the passers-by.
Crossing the paved courtyard with an active stride remarkable in one of his years, he pulled the door-bell and waited until the portress came, a sister of mature age and sober mien.
“May I have the honour of an interview with the Reverend Mother Superior?”
The sister hesitated.
“It is somewhat unusual,” she began, but immediately added: “I dare say that the Reverend Mother will see you. Will Monsieur be so kind as to give his name?”
The old gentleman presented a thin visiting-card, and was shown into the waiting-room with the intimation that the Reverend Mother would soon appear. The room was plainly furnished; with a carpet of dull colours, a few straight-backed chairs, and a plain walnut table on which were some religious books—the Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignace, the Imitation of Christ, a Roman Breviary in four volumes, and a life of Angèle de Brescia. On the bare walls was a large crucifix, and a number of holy pictures representing the Lord Jesus, the Holy Mother, Sainte Ursule, and other saints and martyrs, both men and women; who for the love of God had forsaken parents and friends, abjured the world, crucified the flesh, and given themselves a living sacrifice unto God. It was an exhibition of piety such as might well make one regret the struggles and sins of the outer world, admire the sincerity and devotion of those who had chosen the way of the Cross, and rejoice in the thought that they were now singing the eternal song around the throne of God.
As the old man stood looking at the ascetic and courageous faces, the spirit of the place came stealing upon him; and he saw that there was a way of life in which the lonely, the loveless, the defeated and disappointed, as well as men and women of high ideals and lofty purposes, might find refuge, shelter, companionship, and peace, and have at the same time work to do that would give scope to all their powers and absorb all their thoughts. They would suffer, no doubt, but not more than others; while they would have great satisfaction in the success of their work and the triumph of their cause. It was a good life in itself for those who had the vocation; and as for the final reward there was a wonderful hope, a glorious chance, for which sane people might well throw down the vain baubles and frivolities of the world. Yes, the religious life was not to be despised. Only human love was lacking, but what was that? A passing fancy, the pastime of an hour.
“Monsieur Gamache.”
The old gentleman turned from the holy pictures to find the Reverend Mother Superior standing before him, a little old lady clad in the garb of the Ursulines, with a rosary of plain jet beads about her neck, from which hung an ivory crucifix, yellow with age. Her sweet, wistful face was pale, but she smiled, and her eyes glistened as she held out her hand to the old friend.
He bent over the frail little hand and raised it to his lips in the old courtly way. As for words, he could find none.
“Be seated, Monsieur,” said Mother Sainte Anne, taking up the thread of conversation dropped so many years ago. “It is a great pleasure to see you again, and all the more so because quite unexpected. ‘Until to-morrow,’ you said, as we parted that day. I remember it well. A good many to-morrows have come and gone since that time. Yet I should have known you anywhere. It is I who have changed the more.”
“But no, Annette—pardon me, Reverend Mother—I do not find that you have changed in the least.”
The Mother Superior smiled, and a faint blush appeared on her pale cheeks.
“In one respect you have not changed, Monsieur Gamache—you were always able to turn a compliment in a very pleasant way, though without much regard to fact, perhaps. It is sinful; yet one likes to hear those charming little untruths, which flatter but do not deceive. You shall confess to Father Félix, Monsieur, and he will give you a suitable penance.”
“Confess, Reverend Mother? To what end? That is what I have not done in forty years. There, I am confessing now, and already I feel better. You have power to grant absolution, have you not?”
Mother Sainte Anne held up her hands in amazement and horror.
“Forty years! You have not confessed once in all that time, since, since—— Bon Dieu, what neglect! What a sin against the soul, against the spirit of God! If you had died thus, would any prayers, my prayers, or those of your guardian angel, even, have been able to deliver you? Oh, Monsieur Gamache, Michel, my old friend, delay no longer, not a single day. The grace of God is everlasting, inextinguishable. It still pursues you; and by my voice it once more asks you to confess, to demand forgiveness, to receive absolution.”
The Reverend Mother was weeping, and Michel Gamache was not unmoved. Yet he could not at once rid himself of the cynicism of years, but allowed himself to doubt his best friend.
“Is it that you ask this as a personal request, Reverend Mother, or merely to save another soul from Hell?”
“Michel,” said the old lady, in a low voice, “I have not seen you once since the day we parted, but during every day in all those years I have wished, yes, I have prayed that we might meet again in the eternal world.”
“Why then, Annette, did you leave me at that time, without a word?”
“Michel,” she replied, in a broken voice, “they told me that you had gone away in anger, and afterwards that you were dead. It was not for years, when it was too late, that I learned the truth.”
“Annette,” said the old man, “I was always sure that there was some mistake; and always have I thought of you with the same regard, a love that will last until the end of life, and afterwards, whether in Heaven or Hell, will remain the same.”
“Michel, it is good to hear you talk like that, for now I know that we shall meet again in the homeland of the soul. You will go to Father Félix, will you not, this very day? You will find him in the Basilica an hour before sunset, in the little box to the right as you enter the main door. You will see him?”
“At least I will visit Father Paradis at St. Placide immediately after my return.”
“No, Michel, do not delay. You will find Father Félix to-day, will you not, for my sake?”
“Yes, Annette, I will do it for your sake—and my own.”
“Michel, you make me very happy,” said Annette, in words that Michel had heard before, in the old days. “I have transgressed, I fear, the rules of the convent, and I also shall have confessions to make. But I am glad that you have come, and Father Félix will understand.”
“Yes, he will understand, no doubt, if he is still a man. The priests, fortunately, are human beings like ourselves; and have the same temptations, the same sufferings. Who could confess to an angel who has never passed through the human life? But the priests, the saints, the Holy Mother, the Lord Jesus—they know, they understand. And you, Reverend Mother, will understand when I present a petition in favour of my friend, my son, I may say—Jean Baptiste Giroux, of our parish.”
“Jean Baptiste Giroux? I do not know of him. He is a son, perhaps, of your ancient friend Toussaint Giroux, of Chateau Richer, whom I have seen in former times. He was a noble young man, I have heard.”
“Yes, Reverend Mother, and the son is like his father, tall, strong, courageous, with all the virtues, all the abilities. But for all that, one whom he loves has left him, and will give herself to the religious life.”
“And why not, Monsieur Gamache?”
“Why not, you say? How can you say that, Annette? Will it not be a mistake, a sad mistake, as in our case?”
“Oh!” exclaimed Mother Sainte Anne, with a catch in her voice. “Was it for this you came? Well, it will be useless, I fear. Mademoiselle Taché will take the first vows very soon, and after that it is not likely that she will change her mind. She will be a notable addition to our Congregation—a young lady of good family, beautiful, accomplished, vivacious, of a charming disposition, of a most ardent devotion, and with a considerable dowry. Yes, that is not to be despised, the dowry which the bride of Heaven brings to her Lord and Master, a gift to lay at His feet, a contribution to the great work of the Church through the humble sisters of Sainte Ursule. Yes, Monsieur, Mademoiselle Taché will be happy and useful with us. She is in every way fitted for the religious vocation, and as a teaching sister will be one of the best. Many heretics are won to the true fold through teachers such as she. Yes, I foretell great things for her. A true vocation.”
“A vocation? Reverend Mother, can you believe it?”
“But certainly. Who could doubt it? She has all the qualities, all the marks, and she wishes it sincerely.”
“Are you certain, quite certain?”
“Of course,” replied the old lady, with some asperity. “Has she not said so?”
“But, Reverend Mother, permit a single question. Does she know that Jean Baptiste loves her, with his whole heart, without reserve? Does she know this, or does she think that he has forsaken her, that he despises her, that he is in love with another?”
“How should I know, Monsieur? Mademoiselle Taché has been very reserved on this point. There has been some affair of the heart—that is all that I know.”
“Reverend Mother,” said the old man, rising. “Grant me but one favour for the sake of old times. Be so kind as to tell Mademoiselle Gabrielle what I have said.”
“I will tell her, of course, but it will make no difference. Those who are called to the religious life are inspired by a love that is higher than any mere human emotion. It is a live coal from the altar of God, a spark of that love which brought the divine Saviour to earth to live and die for a lost world. And when one thus gives oneself in the spirit of true devotion, one finds a peace and rest which the world cannot give, and bliss ineffable on the bosom of the divine Redeemer. In our love for Him and for His cause all human loves are embraced and glorified—we give them up that we may receive them again, purified and transfigured, in the beauty of holiness. Ah, Monsieur, the religious life is a good life; and afterwards, in the eternal world, the faithful will live with God unto the ages of the ages. Amen!”
“Amen!” said the old man, solemnly. “Give unto them eternal rest, O God; and may perpetual light illumine them!”
“Adieu, Annette,” said Michel, a moment later. “It has been good to see you again.”
“Yes, and for me also,” said Mother Sainte Anne. “But tell me, Michel. Did you come for the sake of your young friend only, or for Gabrielle?”
“No, Annette. It was for your sake most of all. I have been on the point of coming for many years, and the other motive was the occasion, the pretext, merely.”
Mother Sainte Anne’s face lighted up with a radiant smile; and through a mist of tears Michel Gamache saw again the youth and loveliness of former years, and was satisfied.