On entering the chapel the monk paused a moment
to contemplate the circumstances in which
he was so unexpectedly placed by the request of
Father Bonaventure. In his first interview he had
not undeceived him respecting his ostensible clerical
character. When the proposal of officiating in
the confessional closet in his stead was made by
the father on their way into the chapel, he had resolved,
if further urged upon the subject, which he
did not anticipate, to escape by some subterfuge,
or, if it should become necessary, disclose his disguise.
But the lovely vision of the oratory, acting
upon a highly romantic imagination and feelings
sufficiently susceptible, at once, with the potency
of a magician's wand, overthrew his well-formed
resolutions, which had originated in a species of
chivalric honour and a certain reverence for

[figure description] Page 100.[end figure description]

religion, and he determined to play the father confessor
for a time if again solicited, trusting that his
good fortune might place him once more within
the influence of those brilliant eyes whose glances
had penetrated his heart, and in the hearing of that
sweet voice whose accents had captivated his
senses.

Nevertheless, when he found himself alone within
the chapel, where no thoughts should have intruded
save those that had the Supreme Being
for their object, its dim religious light, the solemn
pomp of the altar, the sacred vessels dedicated to
the worship of the Creator, the touching image of
Him who “bowed his head and died,” and the deep
silence, like that of a tomb, all conspired to impress
his mind with the awful character of the
place, and send the blood with guilty violence to
his brow. With a quick pulse and a conscious
feeling of guilt he hesitated to proceed to the extent
proposed by the father confessor, and for a
moment trembled at his own daring impiety, and
at the thought of so sacrilegious an assumption of
holy duties. His step faltered, and he was half
persuaded to turn back. But while he lingered,
with his hand upon the silken curtain before the
door by which he had entered, a slight motion of
the hangings opposite, at the place where the lovely
novice had disappeared, terminated his indecision.
Dropping the curtain, he said abruptly, as
if he would effectually silence the troublesome
monitor within,

“ 'Tis a masquerade and mummery all, so I'll
in and take the chances Cupid sends me;” and,
crossing the space before the altar, he hastily entered
the confessional and closed the door.

He had scarcely concealed himself when the
arras was drawn aside, and a veiled female entered

[figure description] Page 101.[end figure description]

the chapel. After sanctifying her brow with the
holy water that stood in a vase by the entrance,
with a readiness which appeared the result of habit,
she approached the confessional-box, not omitting
an additional sign of the cross upon her bosom as
she glided past the crucifix, and silently kneeled
on the low step beneath its lattice. A solitary lamp,
that burned night and day, the emblem of that
“light which has come into the world to save sinners,”
shed its pale rays through the chapel, rendering
remote objects and the form of the penitent
dim and indistinct.

“Father, thy blessing!” she said, in a low monotonous
voice, but as unlike that of the youthful
novice, thought the disappointed confessor, as the
croaking of the penfrog to the melody of the night-ingale.

By a train of reasoning not unfrequently employed
by young men in the affairs of the heart,
the young soldier had jumped to a conclusion, for
which, without sounder premises, the logic of the
schools could have given him no authority, which
was, that the first and only penitent must be the
dark-eyed novice. His present disappointment
was therefore proportionate to his confidence in the
soundness of his reasoning, wherein his hopes out-weighed
probability; more especially as the novice,
unless some bird had carried it to her ear, or she
had learned it by that refinement of instinct which
the female heart in such cases wonderfully exhibits,
could not have been aware of this very desirable
change of father confessors. He nevertheless
determined to abide by his present fate, and
outgeneral dame Fortune by resorting to his own
wits for improving the aspect of affairs. He therefore,
in a voice disguised to imitate, so far as possible,
the burlesque grunts of Father Bonaventure,

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in which he was materially aided by the close sides
of the confessional, replied to the kneeling penitent,

“Thou hast my blessing, daughter. Relieve thy
soul, and briefly. A short horse is soon curried; a
short shrift and a long fast. Say on.”

“I have grievously sinned, father, both in thought
and deed,” said the penitent, plaintively, sighing
as if her heartstrings would give way, and then
pausing to await the effect of her words upon her
confessor.

“Confess first thy sin of thought, daughter,” he
said, in an encouraging tone of voice.

“Yester eve,” began the penitent, readily, as if
happy at the opportunity of using her tongue, arranging
her veil and settling herself more easily in
her kneeling posture, “yester eve, when novice
Eugenie was threading my needle (for I was working
at the broidery for the covering to thy escritoir,
father) she said—for thou knowst, father,
these young novices lately come from Quebec are
not discreet and maidenly in their deportment, as,
without mentioning my sinful and unworthy self,
those who have been a somewhat longer space of
time wedded to holy church: well, as I was saying,
father, these young girls are full of all manner
of iniquitous thoughts, and their vain hearts follow
after the devices of their evil imaginations continually;
and,” added she, raising her hands in holy
horror, “they think about men, father! not such
as thyself, who art as harmless as a dove, and whom
I pray the Virgin will protect; for, alas! if thou
shouldst be taken from us—”

“Thy sin! thy sin of thought, daughter!” interrupted
the impatient confessor, as his penitent began
to lose sight of her own sins in her horror at
those of others, and in her solicitude for her

[figure description] Page 103.[end figure description]

confessor; “this worldly-minded novice Eugenie!
what has she to do with thy sins or thee?”

“As I was saying, father, novice Eugenie, worldly-minded,
as thou justly sayst, was threading my
needle for the broidery, for thou knowst thy escritoir—”

“I know, I know, daughter; keep to thy confession,”
interrupted the monk, in his impatience
with difficulty disguising his voice; “this novice!
what said she?”

“She said, father—it's a sin to repeat it, for I
blush even to think of it—she said, and so loud, too,
that old Agathe, who was sweeping the room, could
have heard her if she hadn't been deaf, that she
wished that thou, even thyself, holy father! wert
a youthful knight in disguise. No wonder you
start, father; the saints preserve us! was such like
ever heard of? May St. Therese guard her household!
is my prayer,” she concluded, devoutly
crossing herself.

“Amen!” responded the confessor, in a voice
that appeared to have come from the very bottom
of Father Bonaventure's chest. “What said she
further, daughter?”

“As I was saying, father, when you interrupted
me,” glibly continued the religieuse, “she said she
wished you were a disguised knight like a certain
brave young Norman warrior, Sir Walter de Lancy
by name, whom she says she once read of in
a sinful romaunt. This comes of reading godless
romances, father; thank the Virgin, I can say I
never committed that sin! She said this Walter
de Lancy loved a novice—no doubt just such a
pert, graceless thing as this Eugenie—and, for love
of her, got himself admitted into the convent disguised
as the holy father confessor, whom he shut
up in a tower in his own castle till he had told the

[figure description] Page 104.[end figure description]

silly novice he loved her, and prevailed on her to
run away with him and marry him, as I have no
doubt, and I would say it on the cross, that novice
Eugenie herself would do if she could have the
opportunity. Was ever such scandal heard of,
father, as this deed of that godless Norman knight?”

“Impious and daring youth! He is now, no
doubt, doing penance in purgatory for a crime so
unparalleled,” replied the monk, in a severe tone of
voice.

“I trust he is, father; such sacrilegious conduct
should be punished as an example,” responded the
penitent, with that tempered exultation which became
humility; “but, then, what think you this
novice Eugenie said, father? Well, she said she
wished that Norman knight was alive now, and
would come into the convent in disguise, and confess
the household instead of you. The minx! no
doubt, in that case, she thinks she'd be the novice.
But, if thou wert the Norman, father, thou wouldst
know better,” she continued, in tones meant to be
very insinuating, “than to be taken with such
silly, and, withal, sinful children as these novices
are. That thou wouldst.”

“Thou sayst well, daughter,” replied the confessor,
in a tone of voice modelled on her own; “if
I were that sacrilegious Norman of whom thou
speakst—”

“Not I, father, not I! the novice Eugenie,” she
said, hastily.

“Well, the novice Eugenie: if I were him of
whom she speaks, I should make choice of one
more discreet and experienced; one, I think, of
about thy own age, daughter.”

“I knew thou wouldst, father,” she said, triumphantly.
“But was't not a great sin for this novice
to listen to this Norman?”

[figure description] Page 105.[end figure description]

“Verily was it, daughter,” answered the monk,
solemnly, “and she is, no doubt, enduring at this
moment painful penance with him in purgatory.”

“With him, father? that can be no penance if
they are together,” she said, in a tone of disapprobation.

“In purgatory they neither know nor are known,
my daughter,” said the monk, mildly. “Now proceed
in thy confession. A willing mind makes a
light heel.”

“When novice Eugenie said she wished you
were the handsome young Norman knight, I said,
father,” here the voice of the penitent was lowered
to a very confidential key, while her lips approached
rather closer to the lattice than was customary,
“that I thought thee young and handsome enough
as thou wert, and I, for one, would rather have Father
Bonaventure for my lover than the comeliest
knight, be he Norman or whoever he be, that ever
broke lance.”

Here a deep sigh, partaking, as the monk thought,
equally of the penitential and of the amorous, concluded
the first division, or the sin in thought, of
the penitent's confession.

“Sister Ursule, for, though I behold not thy face,
such thy words bespeak thee to be,” said the monk,
shooting a random, but, as the result showed, a successful
arrow, “although thy sin is great, in as
much as thou hast suffered thy thoughts to wander
to my poor person instead of confining them to thy
crucifix, nevertheless it may be atoned for by a
penance commensurate with its enormity. I enjoin,
therefore, upon thee six additional paternosters
and twelve ave marias over and above thy
customary devotions; and, moreover, that thou come
not to confession for a week to come, and never, by
word or look, put me again in remembrance of this

[figure description] Page 106.[end figure description]

morning's confession. Now relate thy sin in deed,
daughter.”

“Alas, reverend father,” sighed the penitent religieuse,
“how can I utter my own shame! This
morning, while at mass, I lifted my eyes and gazed
for at least ten seconds on the face of the holy
monk at present sojourning in the convent.”

“Thou, woman?” exclaimed the monk, thrown
off his guard by surprise and chagrin, while the
penitent recoiled from the lattice with an incipient
scream of alarm.

He immediately, however, recovered his presence
of mind, which had suddenly deserted him at
the bare possibility of the identity of the ancient
religieuse Ursule with the lovely novice of the
oratory, whose features he had indistinctly seen,
and whose voice he had but once heard. But a
moment's reflection convinced him of the absurdity
of such a supposition, and in the gruffest tones of
Father Bonaventure he said,

“The enormity of thy offence, daughter, hath
moved me, even to the giving utterance to my indignation
in a strange tongue, as did the saints of
old, as thou hast heard me expound to thee from
scripture. But wherefore didst thou let thy
thoughts, nay, thy eyes, lead thee into sin?”

“It was, father,” replied the penitent, who had
resumed her original attitude at the lattice, in an
apologetic tone, “solely for the good of novice
Eugenie, knowing her thoughts are ever world-ward.
Somehow, when the strange monk kneeled
so close beside her, I could not get the Norman
knight out of my head, and so I naturally looked at
him, and then I looked at her, and all at once, father,
I saw them both turn and look at each other, and I
never saw holy man look so pitifully as he looked
on her bold face, as if he knew her failing. I was

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glad to see she had the grace to veil her head, though
I had not given her credit for so much discretion.
Forsooth,” she added, with a toss of her head, “I
shouldn't wonder if the forward chit thought it was
the bold Norman knight she is ever talking about,
since that godless romaunt fell into her hands, who
had come and kneeled himself down beside her, as
if he would look at such a silly child when there
were others to pick and choose from.”

“Thou sayst well, daughter,” said the confessor;
“and now, in regard to this second offence
of thine, which thou hast done wisely to confess so
readily, I enjoin thee, first, to keep all the religieuses
in their rooms, and, also, all the novices, save the
novice Eugenie, for one hour to come. Eugenie I
command you to send forthwith to take thy place
at the confessional; for she hath merited not only
penance, but a severe reprimand, having not only
sinned herself, but tempted thee, holy sister, to
commit sin, both in thought, word, and deed. But
thou art released from thine offences on the performance
of the slight penances I have enjoined
upon thee. Bénédicité, daughter! Go send the
novice Eugenie into the oratory.”

The religieuse Ursule rose from her knees, her
heart lightened of a heavy burden by this free confession
of her great sins and the father's forgiveness,
which, like a devout Catholic, she believed
to be registered in heaven. We venture to hope
that we shall not be thought uncharitable towards
so sincere a penitent and discreet maiden as Sister
Ursule, if we hint that her heart was also, in no
very slight degree, lightened, and her spirits elated,
by the contemplation of the picture which her active
imagination painted, in colours indifferently well
laid on, as if envy herself had handled the brush,
of the disgrace awaiting the offending novice

p157-111 [figure description] Page 108.[end figure description]

Eugenie. Never did penitent hasten to perform allotted
penance with the alacrity with which Sister
Ursule disappeared from the chapel to fulfil that
item of hers contained in the last clause of the confessor's
injunction; an item, it will be remembered,
especially relating to that worldly-minded, knightloving
Eugenie, whose numerous sins and unnovice-like
peccadilloes were a thorn in the flesh of
that holy, charitable, and discreet religieuse.