leave in your hands.  Poor child! she tells me to be discreet!  She need not be afraid.  Write to her, I entreat you, sir, that she can trust me, and answer boldly.  I would not tell you to act in the same manner with all the other messengers of the convent, although I believe them to be honest—­and God forbid I should speak ill of my fellow-creature—­but they are all ignorant, you see; and it is certain that they babble, at least, with their confessors, if with nobody else.  As for me, thank God!  I know very well that I need not confess anything but my sins, and surely to carry a letter from a Christian woman to her brother in Christ is not a sin.  Besides, my confessor is a good old monk, quite deaf, I believe, for the worthy man never answers me; but that is his business, not mine!”

I had not intended to ask her any questions, but if such had been my intention she would not have given me time to carry it into execution; and without my asking her anything, she was telling me everything I cared to know, and she did so in her anxiety for me to avail myself of her services exclusively.

I immediately sat down to write to my dear recluse, intending at first to write only a few lines, as she had requested me; but my time was too short to write so little.  My letter was a screed of four pages, and very likely it said less than her note of one short page.  I told her her letter had saved my life, and asked her whether I could hope to see her.  I informed her that I had given a sequin to the messenger, that she would find another for herself under the seal of my letter, and that I would send her all the money she might want.  I entreated her not to fail writing every Wednesday, to be certain that her letters would never be long enough to give me full particulars, not only of all she did, of all she was allowed to do, but also of all her thoughts respecting her release from imprisonment, and the overcoming of all the obstacles which were in the way of our mutual happiness; for I was as much hers as she was mine.  I hinted to her the necessity of gaining the love of all the nuns and boarders, but without taking them into her confidence, and of shewing no dislike of her convent life.  After praising her for the clever manner in which she had contrived to write to me, in spite of superior orders, I made her understand how careful she was to be to avoid being surprised while she was writing, because in such a case her room would certainly be searched and all her papers seized.

“Burn all my letters, darling,” I added, “and recollect that you must go to confession often, but without implicating our love.  Share with me all your sorrows, which interest me even more than your joys.”

I sealed my letter in such a manner that no one could possibly guess that there was a sequin hidden under the sealing wax, and I rewarded the woman, promising her that I would give her the same reward every time that she brought me a letter from my friend.  When she saw the sequin which I had put in her hand the good woman cried for joy, and she told me that, as the gates of the convent were never closed for her, she would deliver my letter the moment she found the young lady alone.