wearied of life, like a turtle-dove widowed of her mate. Death smiled
sweetly on me, and I was proceeding quietly to die. To be at Blois, at
the Carmelites, consumed by dread of having to take my vows there, a
Mlle. de la Valliere, but without her prelude, and without my Renee!
How could I not be sick--sick unto death?

How different it used to be! That monotonous existence, where every
hour brings its duty, its prayer, its task, with such desperate
regularity that you can tell what a Carmelite sister is doing in any
place, at any hour of the night or day; that deadly dull routine,
which crushes out all interest in one's surroundings, had become for
us two a world of life and movement. Imagination had thrown open her
fairy realms, and in these our spirits ranged at will, each in turn
serving as magic steed to the other, the more alert quickening the
drowsy; the world from which our bodies were shut out became the
playground of our fancy, which reveled there in frolicsome adventure.
The very _Lives of the Saints_ helped us to understand what was so
carefully left unsaid! But the day when I was reft of your sweet
company, I became a true Carmelite, such as they appeared to us, a
modern Danaid, who, instead of trying to fill a bottomless barrel,
draws every day, from Heaven knows what deep, an empty pitcher,
thinking to find it full.

My aunt knew nothing of this inner life. How could she, who has made a
paradise for herself within the two acres of her convent, understand
my revolt against life? A religious life, if embraced by girls of our
age, demands either an extreme simplicity of soul, such as we,
sweetheart, do not possess, or else an ardor for self-sacrifice like
that which makes my aunt so noble a character. But she sacrificed
herself for a brother to whom she was devoted; to do the same for an