University of Virginia Library

THE SISTERS.

It was on the thirtyfirst of December, 1779, that an
alarm of fire was given in Paris. It was soon ascertained
that one of the most distinguished convents was
in flames. The building was inhabited by about three
hundred nuns, many of them descended from families
of high rank. The greatest efforts were made to save
the lives of these unfortunate women. The governor
of Paris, with the chief magistrates, hastened to the spot;
but, as the fire began in the sleeping rooms of the nuns,
they were enveloped in flames before they were aware
of their danger. Horrible indeed was the scene. The
shrieks of the sufferers, mingling with the hoarse shouts
of the populace—the shadowy forms of the nuns seen
tottering upon the rafters, stretching out their hands for
aid that no human power could afford them—then all at
once sinking among the crash of ruins, was too dreadful
to gaze upon. Dismay took possession of the spectators,
and when the last wing of the building fell, a suppressed
murmur of horror arose from the multitude, followed by
a profound silence.

It was many days before the impression of this scene
wore away from the minds of the restless and busy
Parisians. Accounts were published of the victims who
had perished, and the few who were saved were received
into other convents. Among the sufferers was
Theresa de Sèligny, a young lady of high birth. Her
fate excited the deepest interest in the circle in which
she had moved, and even the thoughtless and hard hearted
gave a sigh to her memory.

It is well known how often, in former times, the
younger sisters of families have been sacrificed to the
splendid establishment of the first born. Theresa was
one of these distinguished beings. She was taught
from her infancy that the honors and wealth of the
family were to centre in her; that at a suitable age she
was to be allied to the young Marquis de Lucerne, who
was a descendant of kings, while Louise, her younger
and only sister, was told, in a manner equally peremptory,
that she was destined to take the veil.

It is not difficult to impress the minds of children,
and give to their future destiny almost the color of
fate. Theresa early assumed the state of a marchioness.
Though naturally of an amiable and gentle disposition,
the seeds of vanity and caprice were early sown, and
their usual fruits, arrogance and selfishness, sprung up.
Louise, on the contrary, lived in perfect retirement,
and already appeared like a devotee. Both of the sisters,
however, had been equally perverted by education,
and both were alike actuated by ambition. The one
dreamed of worldly honors, of dress, of jewels; of giving
the tone of fashion and elegance to all Paris; of
making the spacious Chateau de Lucerne, that seat of
ancient, and consequently somewhat gloomy grandeur,
of which at twenty she was to become the mistress, a
gay and modern court, over which she was to preside

as its imperial queen. The nun, too, dreamed of honors;
but they were to be won by renouncing the very
world that was to consummate her sister's splendor;
her path to glory was to be by sacrifice, by humiliation
and prayer; her crown to be a crown of thorns. Already
she looked forward to the supremacy of the convent,
to be the distinguished successor of the Lady
Abbess. Her rank, the influence of her parents, and
her own zeal, all promised distinction, and an ambition
not more purified than her sister's, though differently directed,
burnt in her heart.

In external appearance, nature had apparently suited
herself to their different vocations, but it is difficult to
say how much effect education and a habitual train of
thought may produce. `Train up a child' in the way
you mean he shall go, is a maxim of profound policy.
Theresa was brilliant and commanding; Louise delicate
and shrinking. Thus far the plans of the parents had
been peculiarly successful. Their eldest born was all
they desired. When she appeared in public, at the
theatre, the opera, or the drawing room, she received
involuntary homage. At public gardens people clustered
to see her pass; but her parents were among the
most devoted of her worshippers. That fountain of affection
which springs up in the heart found but one
channel; Louise was scarcely thought of or regarded.
In her own apartment, which her youthful zeal had arranged
like the cell in which her future life was to be
passed, she counted her beads, said her pater nosters
and believed herself a saint, because she worshipped
the graven image of that being whose virtues while on
earth ought to have modelled her life.

With her sister's dreams of ambition, none of love
or domestic happiness mingled. She thought of the
young Marquis as one who was to pay her daily homage;

who was to die when she frowned, and come to
life again when she smiled. She was fully determined
to make her husband her prime minister; to consult his
taste where it was not decidedly opposed to her own,
and to do him credit by the arrangement of their splendid
establishment.

Such was the system Theresa had formed, when
the Marquis de Lucerne returned from his travels,
which were to give the last polish to his education.
It was now that the betrothed lovers met for the first
time. The young Marquis was evidently struck by the
beauty and elegance of Theresa. No timidity as to the
effect she might produce mingled with the lofty and dignified
manner in which she received him. It was as if
a queen might say to her followers, `I admit you among
my train!' Lucerne had been confined to no narrow
school of aristocracy. He had travelled on the continent,
and resided many months in England. He had
studied the genius of the nation, and above all, the genius
of man. The voice of liberty had burst forth in
America. He had been the associate of Pitt and of
Burke, and had learnt that there is a spirit in man,
which teacheth him inspiration. It was with a degree
of loathing that he thought of fulfilling a contract made
by his parents in the bondage of childhood, and he fully
determined to reserve to himself the liberty of decision.
When his eye, however, rested on Theresa, and he beheld
her in the brightness of her beauty, he forgot the
inalienable right of man to judge for himself, and felt
almost willing to yield his freedom.

A few days' intercourse, however, convinced Lucerne
that there was a wide contrast in their characters and
feelings. He grew impatient at her requirements, and
indignant at her caprices, and was often glad to quit

her presence, and wander forth into the solitude of the
garden.

It was in one of these walks that he perceived a door
in a wall standing open. He passed through it, and,
descending a few steps, found himself in a small apartment,
containing a table, a crucifix, a death's head, and
an hourglass; and prostrate before the altar lay a form
of living beauty and interest. He could not doubt that it
was Louise. He had never before seen her, and hardly
remembered that such a being existed. She appeared
to be performing some act of penance; for she groaned
bitterly, and her tears fell fast. He stood silent and
immoveable; but when she took a cross, armed with
innumerable points, and, opening her bosom, seemed
preparing to place it there, an involuntary exclamation
escaped his lips. Louise hastily dropped the instrument
of torture, and arose. The Marquis did not hesitate a
moment in his conviction, that the young lady before
him was the second born, and the destined nun. He
made some apology for his accidental intrusion, but
begged that he might no longer be a stranger to one so
nearly connected with the family.

`Allow me,' said he, `sometimes the pleasure of
your society.'

`My time,' said she, in a low voice, `is short. I have
much preparation to make before I enter the year of my
noviciate. It would ill become me to form associations
that would drag my spirit to the earth. I remember
both you and my sister in my daily prayers.'

As she spoke, however, she quitted the little cell,
and, accompanied by Lucerne, walked slowly in the
pathway. It was sunset, and every object seemed fresh
from the hand of the Creator. The perfume of a
`thousand flowers,' of orange blossoms, acacias, and
sweet scented exotics, floated on the air.

`I cannot reproach myself,' said Lucerne with emotion,
`for interrupting your devotions in that narrow
cell; for here, in the temple of nature, the heart and
imagination must have but one direction.'

Louise mournfully shook her head. `It is there,'
said she, `lies my weakness. In a spot like this, it is
not the Creator, but his works, I adore. We are prone
to forget the First Cause, and rest only in realities; but
the time is near when I trust these struggles will be
over. I would gladly now shut out worldly objects in
the convent where my future pilgrimage is to be passed;
but I have promised Theresa, that I will spend the few
months with her previous to her marriage.'

`Is it,' exclaimed the Marquis with animation, `by
excluding the works of the Creator, that we can best
learn to love him? Is it in a narrow cell, and shut out
from the glorious light of day, that we feel most sensibly
the power of his presence?'

`Natural objects,' said Louise, `have their use; but
the effect of these on the mind is low and grovelling,
compared with the holy mystery of the cross, the incarnation,
and blessed sacraments of the church. It is not
by walking in orange or myrtle groves; it is not there
that we trace the sufferings of a crucified Redeemer.
It is prostrate before the cross to which he was nailed,
and in the depths of our own hearts, that we feel our
worthlessness, and find resolution to inflict upon ourselves
punishments that may mitigate the pains of purgatory.
Blessed Saviour of the world!' she exclaimed,
`may these eyes become sightless balls when they shall
be content to gaze on thy works, and forget thee in thy
passion and thy cross!'

Lucerne shuddered. It were a work worthy a human
being, thought he, to redeem a creature so noble from
the darkness of superstition. He intreated Louise to

mingle in her family circle, to give her friends the privilege
of conversing with her the short time they were to
pass together.

`It is inconsistent with my future vocation,' she replied.
`The mind is but too easily seduced by material
objects, and engrossed by worldly thoughts; and if it is
filled, where can God find a place. It is only,' she
continued, `quand Dieu trouve des vaisseaux vides, il y
verse libéralement ses bénédictions célestes.'

`At least,' said Lucerne, `it must be the office of
saints and angels to instruct the ignorant and benighted.
Cannot your benevolence find its exercise in this work?
Suffer me to come to your cell, and listen to your
instructions. What is so flattering to ambition as power
and patronage!'

The eye of Louise flashed with momentary brightness,
and its meek and disciplined expression was changed to
exultation. Lucerne marked the change of countenance,
and followed the advantage he had gained. She was
persuaded to suffer him to visit her cell at those hours
of the morning when the inhabitants of the chateau were
sleeping off the effects of late hours, and the dissipation
of the preceding evening. It was then that Lucerne
wandered forth, animated by the breath of morning, but
still more by the enthusiasm of his own heart, and by
benevolent affections that teach man the value of existence.
There was nothing clandestine in these visits.
They walked under the shade of the trees, and Theresa
was perfectly willing her lover should devote those hours
to her sister which she passed in oblivion; and it was
not till evening that she claimed his homage.

In the mean time, the zeal of Louise increased with
her hopes. The conversion of Lucerne became her first
object. For this she knelt before the crucifix, and
pressed it to her lips and her bosom. She forgot the

humbling sense of her own sins, that had so often
drawn tears of anguish from her eyes, and called for
self-inflicted torments. It seemed as if a new spirit
of martyrdom had seized her, and she was willing to
sacrifice even the care of her own salvation for the
redemption of Lucerne. Her countenance had lost the
pale, meek expression which had marked it from childhood.
Her eyes sparkled with unwonted vivacity, and
her cheek mantled with a bloom that threatened to rival
the artificial brilliancy of her sister's. Could Lucerne
be all this time ignorant of the workings of her mind?
Woman is born to be the dependant of man; to be
subjugated by his influence. They are the ministers of
her fate. The good, become her guardian angels; the
bad, instruments of torture.

The young Marquis could not be ignorant of his power,
but he followed the impulse of the moment, and
thought not of consequences. Louise no longer refused
to listen to the waterfall, because it discoursed eloquently;
to gaze on the distant prospect; to examine
the insect and the flower through the wonder working
microscope, or hear the melody of the birds. When
the mind once begins to exercise its reason, its progress
is rapid. The young recluse no longer worshipped a
God of monastic gloom. Her first consciousness of existence
seemed now like `the morning stars' when they
`shouted aloud and sang for joy.' One superstition after
another was gradually fading away, and though at
times she trembled at her own thoughts, yet she seldom
repaired to her beads or pater nosters to smother the
unholy intruders. It would have been happy for her
future peace if she could have received the simple and
sublime truths of religion from one qualified to impart
them. The vague and indeterminate observations of Lucerne
served rather to bewilder, than enlighten her mind.

It was at this time that the young Marquis received
a summons from his parents to hasten home on acaccount
of family arrangements, for which his presence
was necessary. The pride and caprice of Theresa had
become almost intolerable to him, and he determined to
inform his parents of his reluctance to the union, and
leave them to dissolve the contract they had formed.
When he took leave of her there was little emotion on
either side; but the young lady spoke of his return as a
circumstance not to be doubted. Indeed it probably never
entered the minds of either of the sisters that they
could avoid the destiny marked out for them from their
infancy. The parting between Lucerne and Louise
was of a more sentimental nature. For the first time
he pressed his lips upon the hand of the consecrated
vestal. She withdrew it as if it were a deadly sin,
while her trembling limbs almost refused to support her,
and bidding him farewell, hastened to her lonely apartment.

For many succeeding days, Louise, to a transient observer,
would have appeared the very model of devotion;
but Le Père François, who was the family confessor,
had marked her with a keener eye. He had seen the
effect which worldly interest had produced upon her
character, and he read in her tears and sighs, the struggles
of a rebellious spirit. It was now that mingling
compassion and severity, praise and reproof, he riveted
more firmly than ever, the fetters of superstition.

`My child,' he said, `thou hast proof in thy wanderings
that a convent is thy only ark of safety. Flee to it
as to thy strong hold. Let not another week pass over
thy head and find thee unsheltered from the storm!
Apostles, martyrs, and saints stand ready to receive
thee at the door of the sanctuary. Go and reap thy glorious
reward!'

It was in vain that Louise urged her promise to remain
with her sister till after her marriage; the confessor
was resolute, and the parents, prompted by a hint
from him, united their wishes to his. Theresa tenderly
loved her sister, and warmly disapproved the measure;
but though she had an habitual disregard for opinions
contrary to her own, she trembled to oppose the requirements
of one of the fathers of the church; and Louise,
with a heart clinging to earth, with those newly awakened
affections that first teach us the value of existance,
was doomed to pass the fatal threshold.

The Marquis, on his return to his parents, communicated
to them his unwillingness to ratify the contract
they had formed.

`It is impossible,' said he, `that there can be any
union between us. I love retirement and leisure; her
days are passed in company and dissipation. And then
again my whole soul revolts against the tyranny and
selfish ambition which dooms one sister to a living
grave, to aggrandize the other. Louise possesses in her
character all that might give grace to domestic life.
By allowing her her just and equitable rights, both
would be benefited.

It was in vain that Lucerne protested and reasoned.
His insinuations, which were only darkly hinted with
regard to the nun, filled his parents with horror. The
contract they considered one of honor, any violation of
which would bring disgrace upon their family; and the
only boon that the son could obtain, was the delay of
another year. He left this second negotiation to his
parents, almost hoping that the palpable indifference it
discovered might annul the treaty. But in ambitious
projects there are only a few prominent points. These
were still fair to the eye, and the parents, satisfied, on
both sides, that wealth, titles, and lands, would be unit

ed, considered the parties merely as appurtenances.
Theresa had been educated with the same views, and
neither reasoned nor thought on the subject. As to the
postponement of the marriage, it was to her a matter of
indifference.

In the mean time Louise entered on her noviciate at
the convent. This convent was one of the strictest
order; but the young novice exceeded all others in
zeal. Even the pious and exemplary Lady Abbess
viewed with astonishment her disregard of sleep and
food, and her voluntary penances. Every excitement
was presented to her mind by the enthusiastic fanatics.
She was compared to Saint Catharine, who was broken
on a wheel, and to a host of other saints, who died less
enviable deaths. It is not surprising, amidst this horrible
excitement, with her heart struggling with worldly
recollections, and her frame wasted by penance, that
her reason should have tottered on its throne. She began
to have strange and wild imaginations; sometimes
called herself the mother of God, the `adorable Marie;'
sometimes spoke of herself as Jesus Christ, and destined
to be bodily crucified a second time. The nuns listened
to the wanderings of her disordered mind as to
beatific visions. Such extraordinary sanctity could not
be concealed, even within the walls of a convent. The
sisters talked of her at the grate when their friends
came to see her, and it was not long before she was
announced as a convulsionnaire.[1]

The devotees who professed to be convulsionnaires, were
even at this period rare; for it required a fortitude in
the endurance of suffering almost beyond human nature.
Instances are recorded of feeble and delicate women,
who were actually nailed to the cross in imitation of
Jesus Christ, and remained in that situation three hours
and a half, enduring every species of torture. Others
had their clothes burnt on them, and the fire only extinguished
when life was in imminent danger.

It was in the beautiful province of Languedoc, where
Lucerne was passing a few weeks, that he took up
a journal containing an account of the `extraordinary
piety of the young novice Louise de Sèligny, and second
daughter of the noble house of Montserrat, who was to
exhibit as a convulsionnaire before a few distinguished
friends, on the twelfth day of the ensuing month, about
the time of the holy incarnation.' It was with emotion
amounting to horror, that he read this paragraph. The
year of procrastination had nearly expired, and he did
not hesitate a moment to return to Paris. He determined
to make one effort to rouse the sensibility of
Theresa towards her sister, and to persuade her to
reject the sacrifice her parents exacted. It was now that
he found, under a thoughtless and dissipated exterior,
a feeling heart. The young lady entered warmly into
his project, which was to persuade her sister solemnly
to protest against taking the vows, even at the altar, if
necessary, and to relinquish to her a part of her splendid
fortune. The plan was to be kept secret from the
parents, that no measures might be taken to defeat it.
The most difficult part to accomplish, however, was to
persuade Louise herself to renounce a monastic life.
This Lucerne had not foreseen; for he knew not that,
since his departure, her former impressions had returned
with tenfold strength. He spent hours at the grate

endeavouring to shake her resolution; but all he could
obtain was the promise that she would not exhibit as a
convulsionnaire, though he could not doubt that her self-inflicted
torments were already unsettling her mind, and
destroying her health.

Theresa, with generous feelings, devoted a portion of
that time to her sister, which had been hitherto wasted
upon dress and fashion. It needs but one strong bond of
union to connect two young people, thrown together by
circumstances. Lucerne had discovered that Theresa
had an affectionate heart. A thousand virtues and good
qualities, some real, and some imaginary, opened upon
his view. He became now as earnest to fulfil the contract
as he had formerly been to annul it, and preparations
were made for the splendid alliance. The time,
too, rapidly approached, in which the fate of Louise
was to be decided. The week preceding the marriage
of one sister, was appointed for the other to take the veil.
It was now that both Theresa and Lucerne exerted all
their powers of reasoning and persuasion to induce
Louise to protest against the vows. She had ceased to
oppose their earnest solicitations, and either maintained
an obstinate silence on the subject, or let fall ambiguous
phrases, that startled and astonished them.

The night previous to the day which was to decide
her fate, Theresa declared her intention of passing with
her. She was sanguine in the belief that they had won
her to their wishes. Lucerne parted with the sisters at
the refectoire of the convent. Never had either looked
so lovely to him; Louise, pale and emaciated, but her
eyes sparkling with supernatural brightness; Theresa,
resplendent in beauty; the one clad in the simple
white robes of a novice; the other sparkling in jewels
and adorned with the drapery of fashion. He embraced
Theresa, and would have embraced Louise; but she

said, with an air of wildness that chilled him, `Touch
me not! I have not yet ascended—.'

It was on that night, that dreadful night, that the
fire broke out in the convent. It began near the cell
of the sisters, and their names were first among the
victims!

The parents of these unfortunate girls retired to one
of their splendid chateaux, and the world ceased to talk
of them.

Lucerne felt this event most deeply, and for many
months he avoided Paris. On his return to the city,
he was one day accosted by a friar, whom he recognised
as the Confessor of the family of Montserrat. The
venerable Father seemed oppressed by recollections too
dreadful to be borne, as he gazed mournfully upon the
young Marquis. He then hastily put a paper into his
hand, and disappeared. It was dated the 31st, the night of
the dreadful fire, and written by Louise. It was wandering
and unconnected, and like the ravings of a maniac.
She declared herself `appointed to consume the world
by fire; that the hour was come!' From the dark and
unconnected sentences more might be inferred than
met the eye. Lucerne, filled with horror, pursued the
investigation no further. Silence and mystery rested
on the memory of the maniac.