When it was over, I said, “Have you discovered anything?”
The Superior answered, in a voice of rage, struggling proudly, but vainly, with disappointment, “I have other means of discovery—prepare for them, and tremble when they are resorted to.”
At these words he rushed from my cell, giving a sign to the four monks to follow him. I was left alone. I had no longer any doubt of my danger. I saw myself exposed to the fury of men who would risk nothing to appease it. I watched, waited, trembled, at every step I heard in the gallery—at the sound of every door that opened or shut near me. Hours went on in this agony of suspense, and terminated at last without an event. No one came near me that night—the next was to be that of the great confession. In the course of the day, I took my place in the choir, trembling, and watching every eye. I felt as if every countenance was turned on me, and every tongue said in silence, “Thou art the man.” Often I wished that the storm I felt was gathering around me, would burst at once. It is better to hear the thunder than to watch the cloud. It did not burst, however, then. And when the duties of the day were over, I retired to my cell, and remained there, pensive, anxious, and irresolute.
The confession had begun; and as I heard the penitents, one by one, return from the church, and close the doors of their cells, I began to dread that I was to be excluded from approaching the holy chair, and that this exclusion from a sacred and indispensible right, was to be the commencement of some mysterious course of rigour. I waited, however, and was at last summoned. This restored my courage, and I went through my duties more tranquilly. After I had made my confession, only a few simple questions were proposed to me, as, Whether I could accuse myself of any inward breach of conventual duty? of anything I had reserved? anything in my conscience? etc.—and on my answering them in the negative, was suffered to depart. It was on that very night the porter died. My last packet had gone some days before—all was safe and well. Neither voice or line could bear witness against me now, and hope began to revisit me, as I reflected that my brother’s zealous industry would discover some other means for our future communication.
All was profound calm for a few days, but the storm was to come soon enough. On the fourth evening after the confession, I was sitting alone in my cell, when I heard an unusual bustle in the convent. The bell was rung—the new porter seemed in great agitation—the Superior hurried to the parlour first, then to his cell—then some of the elder monks were summoned. The younger whispered in the galleries—shut their doors violently—all seemed in agitation. In a domestic building, occupied by the smallest family, such circumstances would hardly be noticed, but, in a convent, the miserable monotony of what may be called their internal existence, gives an importance—an interest, to the most trivial external circumstance in common life. I felt all this. I said to myself, “Something is going on.”—I added, “Something is going on against me.” I was right in both my conjectures. Late in the evening I was ordered to attend the Superior in his own apartment—I said I was ready to go. Two minutes after the order was reversed, and I was desired to remain in my cell, and await the approach of the Superior—I answered I was willing to obey. But this sudden change of orders filled me with an indefinite fear; and in all the changes of my life, and vicissitude of my feelings, I have never felt any fear so horrible. I walked up and down, I repeated incessantly, “My God protect me! my God strengthen me!” Then I dreaded to ask the protection of God, doubting whether the cause in which I was engaged merited his protection.
My ideas, however, were all scattered by the sudden entrance of the Superior and the four monks who had attended him on the visit previous to the confession. At their entrance I rose—no one desired me to sit down. The Superior advanced with a look of fury, and, dashing some papers on my table, said, “Is that your writing?”
I threw a hurried and terrified eye over the papers—they were a copy of my memorial. I had presence of mind enough to say, “That is not my writing.”
“Wretch! you equivocate, it is a copy of your writing.”
I was silent.
“Here is a proof of it,” he added, throwing down another paper. It was a copy of the memoir of the advocate, addressed to me, and which, by the influence of a superior court, they had not the power of withholding from me. I was expiring with anxiety to examine it, but I did not dare to glance at it. The Superior unfolded page after page. He said, “Read, wretch! read—look into it, examine it line by line.”
I approached trembling—I glanced at it—in the very first lines I read hope. My courage revived.—I said, “My father, I acknowledge this to be the copy of my memorial. I demand your permission to read the answer of the advocate, you cannot refuse me this right.”
“Read it,” said the Superior, and he flung it towards me.
You may readily believe, sir, that, under such circumstances, I could not read with very steady eyes; and my penetration was not at all quickened by the four monks disappearing from the cell, at a signal I did not see. The Superior and I
