I had been quite content to leave for Paris:  first, because Abner went with me, and then because I hoped to see a little of all those beautiful things of which he had spoken to me with so much charm; but how was I disappointed!  My mother kept me but one day at her house, and did not even allow Abner to come to see me.  During that day I must, she said, collect my thoughts preparatory to entering the convent.  For it was actually to the convent of the Ursulines, of which my father’s sister was the superior, that she conducted me next day.

Think of it, dear girls!  I was fourteen, but not bigger than a lass of ten, used to the open air and to the caresses of mother Catharine and my brothers.  It seemed to me as if I were a poor little bird shut in a great dark cage.

My aunt, the abbess, Agnes de Morainville, took me to her room, gave me bonbons and pictures, told me stories, and kissed and caressed me, but her black gown and her bonnet appalled me, and I cried with all my might: 

“I want mother Catharine!  I want Joseph!  I want Bastien!”

My aunt, in despair, sent for three or four little pupils to amuse me; but this was labor lost, and I continued to utter the same outcries.  At last, utterly spent, I fell asleep, and my aunt bore me to my little room and put me to bed, and then slowly withdrew, leaving the door ajar.

On the second floor of the convent there were large dormitories, where some hundreds of children slept; but on the first there were a number of small chambers, the sole furniture of each being a folding bed, a washstand, and a chair, and you had to pay its weight in gold for the privilege of occupying one of these cells, in order not to be mixed with the daughters of the bourgeoisie, of lawyers and merchants.  My mother, who was very proud, had exacted absolutely that they give me one of these select cells.

Hardly had my aunt left me when I awoke, and fear joined itself to grief.  Fancy it!  I had never lain down in a room alone, and here I awoke in a corner of a room half lighted by a lamp hung from the ceiling.  You can guess I began again my writhings and cries.  Thereupon appeared before me in the open door the most beautiful creature imaginable.  I took her for a fairy, and fell to gazing at her with my eyes full of amazement and admiration.  You have seen Madelaine, and you can judge of her beauty in her early youth.  It was a fabulous beauty joined to a manner fair, regal, and good.

She took me in her arms, dried my tears, and at last, at the extremity of her resources, carried me to her bed; and when I awoke the next day I found myself still in the arms of Madelaine de Livilier.  From that moment began between us that great and good friendship which was everything for me during the time that I passed in the convent.  I should have died of loneliness and grief without Madelaine.  I had neither brothers nor sisters; she was both these to me:  she was older than I, and protected me while she loved me.