"And now," continued she, speaking with a terrible energy, "put away these bridal deceits; they will never be worn by me! I have a garb more becoming the bridal of death; more fitting to wear by the sister of--O God! I was going to say, of a murderer!"

Amelie, with a wild desperation, gathered up the gay robes and garlands and threw them in a heap in the corner of the chamber. "My glory is departed!" said she. "Oh, Hortense, I am punished for the pride I took in them! Yet it was not for myself, but for the sake of him, I took pride in them! Bestow them, I pray you, upon some more happy girl, who is poor in fortune, but rich in love, who will wear them at her bridal, instead of the unhappy Amelie."

The group of girls beheld her, while their eyes were swimming with tears. "I have long, long kept a bridal veil in my closet," she went on, "and knew not it was to be mine!" Opening a wardrobe, she took out a long black veil. It had belonged to her grandaunt, the nun, Madelaine de Repentigny, and was kept as an heirloom in her family.

"This," said she, "shall be mine till death! Embrace me, O my sisters, my bridesmaids and companions. I go now to the Ursulines to kneel at the door and crave admittance to pass a life of penitence for Le Gardeur, and of prayer for my beloved Pierre."

"O Amelie, think what you do!" exclaimed Hortense Beauharnais; "be not hasty, take not a step that cannot be recalled. It will kill Pierre!"

"Alas! I have killed him already!" said she; "but my mind is made up!

Dear Hortense, I love Pierre, but oh, I could never look at his face again without shame that would burn like guilt. I give myself henceforth to Christ, not for my own sake, but for his, and for my unhappy brother's! Do not hinder me, dear friends, and do not follow me! May you all be happy in your happiness, and pray for poor Amelie, whom fate has stricken so hard and so cruelly in the very moment of her brightest hopes! And now let me go--alone--and God bless you all! Bid my aunt to come and see me," added she; "I cannot even wait her return."

The girls stood weeping around her, and kissed and embraced her over and over. They would not disobey her request to be allowed to go alone to the Convent, but as she turned to depart, she was clasped around the neck by Heloise de Lotbiniere, exclaiming that she should not go alone, that the light of the world had gone out for her as well as for Amelie, and she would go with her.

"But why, Heloise, would you go with me to the Convent?" asked Amelie, sadly. She knew but too well why.

"Oh, my cousin! I too would pray for Le Gardeur! I too--but no matter! I will go with you, Amelie! If the door of the Ursulines open for you, it shall open for Heloise de Lotbiniere also."

"I have no right to say nay, Heloise, nor will I," replied Amelie, embracing her; "you are of my blood and lineage, and the lamp of Repentigny is always burning in the holy chapel to receive broken-hearted penitents like you and me!"

"Oh, Heloise, do not you also leave us! Stay till to-morrow!" exclaimed the agitated girls, amazed at this new announcement.

"My mind is made up; it has long been made up!" replied Heloise. "I only waited the marriage of Amelie before consummating my resolution to enter the convent. I go now to comfort Amelie, as no other friend in the world can comfort her. We shall be more content in the midst of our sorrows to be together."

It was in vain to plead with or to dissuade them. Amelie and Heloise were inexorable and eager to be gone. They again kissed their companions, with many tears bidding them a last farewell, and the two weeping girls, hiding their heads under their veils, left the bright mansion that was their home, and proceeded with hasty steps towards the Convent of the Ursulines.

CHAPTER LII. THE LAMP OF REPENTIGNY.

Closely veiled, acknowledging no one, looking at no one, and not themselves recognized by any, but clinging to each other for mutual support, Amelie and Heloise traversed swiftly the streets that led to the Convent of the Ursulines.

At the doors, and in the porches and galleries of the old-fashioned houses, women stood in groups, discussing eagerly the wild reports that were flying to and fro through the city, and looking up and down the streets for further news of the tragedy in the market-place. The male part of the population had run off and gathered in excited masses around the mansion of the Golden Dog, which was suddenly shut up, and long streamers of black crape were hanging at the door.

Many were the inquisitive glances and eager whisperings of the good wives and girls as the two ladies, deeply veiled in black, passed by with drooping heads and handkerchiefs pressed against their faces, while more than one quick ear caught the deep, suppressed sobs that broke from their bosoms. No one ventured to address them, however, although their appearance caused no little speculation as to who they were and whither they were going.

Amelie and Heloise, almost fainting under their sorrow, stood upon the broad stone step which formed the threshold that separated the world they were entering into from the world they were leaving.

The high gables and old belfry of the Monastrey stood bathed in sunlight. The figure of St. Joseph that dominated over the ancient portal held out his arms and seemed to welcome the trembling fugitives into the house with a gesture of benediction.

The two ladies paused upon the stone steps. Amelie clasped her arm round Heloise, whom she pressed to her bosom and said, "Think before you knock at this door and cross the threshold for the last time, Heloise! You must not do it for my sake, darling."

"No, Amelie," replied she sadly. "It is not wholly for your sake. Would I could say it were! Alas! If I remained in the world, I could even now pity Le Gardeur, and follow him to the world's end; but it must not--cannot be. Do not seek to dissuade me, Amelie, for it is useless."

"Your mind is made up, then, to go in with me, my Heloise?" said Amelie, with a fond, questioning look.

"Fully, finally, and forever!" replied she, with energy that left no room for doubt. "I long ago resolved to ask the community to let me die with them. My object, dear sister, is like yours: to spend my life in prayers and supplications for Le Gardeur, and be laid, when God calls me to his rest, by the side of our noble aunt, Mere Madelaine de Repentigny, whose lamp still burns in the Chapel of the Saints, as if to light you and me to follow in her footsteps."

"It is for Le Gardeur's sake I too go," replied Amelie; "to veil my face from the eyes of a world I am ashamed to see, and to expiate, if I can, the innocent blood that has been shed. But the sun shines very bright for those to whom its beams are still pleasant!" said she, looking around sadly, as if it were for the last time she bade adieu to the sun, which she should never again behold under the free vault of heaven.

Heloise turned slowly to the door of the Convent. "Those golden rays that shine through the wicket," said she, "and form a cross upon the pavement within, as we often observed with schoolgirl admiration, are the only rays to gladden me now. I care no more for the light of the sun. I will live henceforth in the blessed light of the lamp of Repentigny. My mind is fixed, and I will not leave you, Amelie. 'Where thou goest I will go, where thou lodgest I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God.'"

Amelie kissed her cousin tenderly. "So be it, then, Heloise. Your heart is broken as well as mine. We will pray together for Le Gardeur, beseeching God to pity and forgive."

Amelie knocked at the door twice before a sound of light footsteps was heard within. A veiled nun appeared at the little wicket and looked gravely for a moment upon the two postulantes for admission, repeating the formula usual on such occasions.

"What seek you, my sisters?"

"To come in and find rest, good Mere des Seraphins," replied Amelie, to whom the portiere was well known. "We desire to leave the world and live henceforth with the community in the service and adoration of our blessed Lord, and to pray for the sins of others as well as our own."

"It is a pious desire, and no one stands at the door and knocks but it is opened. Wait, my sisters, I will summon the Lady Superior to admit you."

The nun disappeared for a few minutes. Her voice was heard again as she returned to the wicket: "The Lady Superior deputes to Mere Esther the privilege, on this occasion, of receiving the welcome postulantes of the house of Repentigny."

The portiere retired from the wicket. The heavy door swung noiselessly back, opening the way into a small antechamber, floored with smooth flags, and containing a table and a seat or two. On either side of the interior door of the antechamber was a turnstile or tourelle, which enabled the inmates within to receive anything from the outside world without being themselves seen. Amelie and Heloise passed through the inner door, which opened as of its own accord, as they approached it with trembling steps and troubled mien.

A tall nun, of commanding figure but benign aspect, received the two ladies with the utmost affection, as well-known friends.

Mere Esther wore a black robe sweeping the ground. It was bound at the waist by a leathern girdle. A black veil fell on each side of the snowy fillet that covered her forehead, and half covered the white wimple upon her neck and bosom.

At the first sight of the veil thrown over the heads of Amelie and Heloise, and the agitation of both, she knew at once that the time of these two girls, like that of many others, had come. Their arrival was a repetition of the old, old story, of which her long experience had witnessed many instances.

"Good mother," exclaimed Amelie, throwing her arms around the nun, who folded her tenderly to her bosom, although her face remained calm and passionless, "we are come at last! Heloise and I wish to live and die in the monastery. Good Mother Esther, will you take us in?"

"Welcome both!" replied Mere Esther, kissing each of them on the forehead. "The virgins who enter in with the bridegroom to the marriage are those whose lamps are burning! The lamp of Repentigny is never extinguished in the Chapel of Saints, nor is the door of the monastery ever shut against one of your house."

"Thanks, good mother! But we bring a heavy burden with us. No one but God can tell the weight and the pain of it!" said Amelie sadly.

"I know, Amelie, I know; but what says our blessed Lord? 'Come unto me all ye that are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.'"

"I seek not rest, good mother," replied she sadly, "but a place for penance, to melt Heaven with prayers for the innocent blood that has been shed to-day, that it be not recorded forever against my brother.

Oh, Mere Esther, you know my brother, Le Gardeur; how generous and kind he was! You have heard of the terrible occurrence in the market-place?"

"Yes, I have heard," said the nun. "Bad news reaches us ever soonest.

It fills me with amazement that one so noble as your brother should have done so terrible a deed."

"Oh, Mere Esther!" exclaimed Amelie eagerly, "it was not Le Gardeur in his senses who did it. No, he never knowingly struck the blow that has killed me as well as the good Bourgeois! Alas! he knew not what he did.

But still he has done it, and my remaining time left on earth must be spent in sackcloth and ashes, beseeching God for pardon and mercy for him."

"The community will join you in your prayers, Amelie," replied the Mere.

Esther stood wrapt in thought for a few moments. "Heloise!" said she, addressing the fair cousin of Amelie, "I have long expected you in the monastery. You struggled hard for the world and its delights, but God's hand was stronger than your purposes. When He calls, be it in the darkest night, happy is she who rises instantly to follow her Lord!"

"He has indeed called me, O mother! and I desire only to become a faithful servant of His tabernacle forever. I pray, good Mere Esther, for your intercession with the Mere de la Nativite. The venerable Lady Superior used to say we were dowerless brides, we of the house of Lotbiniere."

"But you shall not be dowerless, Heloise!" burst out Amelie. "You shall enter the convent with as rich a dowry as ever accompanied an Ursuline."

"No, Amelie; if they will not accept me for myself, I will imitate my aunt, the admirable queteuse, who, being, like me, a dowerless postulante, begged from house to house throughout the city for the means to open to her the door of the monastery.