with the record of his crimes.” “I have often been told in the convent, I was the greatest sinner on earth.” “You equivocate again, and convert your ambiguities into reproaches—this will not do—you must answer plainly: For what purpose did you procure so much paper, and how have you employed it?” “I have told you already.” “It was, then, employed in your confession?”—I was silent, but bowed assentingly.—“You can, then, shew us the proofs of your application to your duties. Where is the manuscript that contains your confession?” I blushed and hesitated, as I showed about half-a-dozen blotted and scrawled pages as my confession. It was ridiculous. It did not occupy more than a tenth part of the paper which I had received. “And this is your confession?” “It is.” “And you dare to say that you have employed all the paper entrusted to you for that purpose.”—I was silent. “Wretch!” said the Superior, losing all patience, “disclose instantly for what purpose you have employed the paper granted you. Acknowledge instantly that it was for some purpose contrary to the interests of this house.”—At these words I was roused. I saw again the cloven foot of interest peeping from beneath the monastic garb. I answered, “Why am I suspected if you are not guilty? What could I accuse you of? What could I complain of if there were no cause? Your own consciences must answer this question for me.” At these words, the monks were again about to interpose, when the Superior, silencing them by a signal, went on with his matter-of-fact questions, that paralyzed all the energy of passion. “You will not tell me what you have done with the paper committed to you?”—I was silent.—“I enjoin you, by your holy obedience, to disclose it this moment.”—His voice rose in passion as he spoke, and this operated as a signal on mine. I said, “You have no right, my father, to demand such a declaration.” “Right is not the question now. I command you to tell me. I require your oath on the altar of Jesus Christ, and by the image of his blessed Mother.” “You have no right to demand such an oath. I know the rules of the house—I am responsible to the confessor.” “Do you, then, make a question between right and power? You shall soon feel, within these walls, they are the same.” “I make no question—perhaps they are the same.” “And you will not tell what you have done with those papers, blotted, doubtless, with the most infernal calumnies?” “I will not.” “And you will take the consequences of your obstinacy on your own head?” “I will.” And the four monks chorussed again, all in the same unnatural tone, “The consequences be on his own head.” But while they spoke thus, two of them whispered in my ears, “Deliver up your papers, and all is well. The whole convent knows you have been writing.” I answered, “I 

 Prev. P 6/113 next