“Speak to me, Marie, if ever you loved me.”

“That I loved you, Francois, you know full well:  not even your unkind desertion could affect that love, which was unchangeable.  I dared all for your sake; my brothers, my father, could not extort the secret from me, and their suspicions, although directed towards you, could never be confirmed.  I bore the offspring of my guilt in solitary anguish, afterwards loaded with reproaches when I needed comfort and consolation, and stunned with imprecations when I required soothing and repose.  I buried it with shame and sorrow and contumely.  You had abandoned me, and I felt that all ties to this world were over.  I took the veil, and never was the world quitted by so willing a votary as myself.  I have since been peaceful, if not happy.”

“And now, Marie, you shall be happy,” cried I, stretching out my arms to her.  “Come to me, I will explain my motives for leaving Marseilles, and what my future intentions were, if they had not been frustrated by unforeseen events.  All shall yet be well.”

“Francois, all is well.  I have taken a solemn vow—­it is registered in heaven.  You have by fraud and imposition entered into a holy place, and assumed a holy character.  Add not to your crime by even harbouring the idea of impropriety, and add not to my humiliation by supposing for a moment that I am capable of being a participator.  Holy Virgin,” cried she, falling on her knees, “I demand thy powerful aid in this conflict of worldly passions and holy wishes.  Oh! make me dead to all but thee, and to the spouse whom I have accepted at thy hands.”

She then rose and continued—­“How you will be able to leave this convent, Francois, I know not; but your secret is safe with me, provided that you do not again request my presence, as you have this night.  My prayers shall ever be for you, but we must meet no more;” and Marie waved her hand mournfully, and quitted the apartment.

Although I had always a great contempt for the Catholic religion, of which I at that period was a member, I was awed by the beauty of virtue as it appeared in Marie, and I passed the night in melancholy reflections.  I felt more love for her than ever, and determined upon persuading her to quit the convent and become my wife.  The next morning I sent for her.

“Marie, you gave yourself to heaven, when you imagined that you had no tie upon earth.  You were deceived; there was one whom you still loved, and who still adored you.  Vows made in delusion are not registered.  Leave this convent with me, become my wife, and you will do your duty better towards heaven than by pining between these walls, which contain nothing but envy, hatred, and remorse.”