The amorous abbess, or, Love in a nunnery a novel / translated from the French by a woman of quality. Brémond, Gabriel de. 1684 Approx. 138 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 77 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2007-01 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1). A29288 Wing B4343 Wing A3017 ESTC R5008 12318188 ocm 12318188 59414

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Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A29288) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 59414) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 198:11) The amorous abbess, or, Love in a nunnery a novel / translated from the French by a woman of quality. Brémond, Gabriel de. Woman of quality. [2], 140 p. Printed for R. Bentley ..., London : 1684. Translation of part of: Le Cercle, ou conversations galantes / G. Brémond. Cf. BM. Attributed to G. Bremond. Cf. BM; Wing. First English ed. Cf. NUC pre-1956. Reproduction of original in British Library.

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THE Amorous Abbeſs: OR, LOVE IN A Nunnery.

PARIS being in its greateſt Solitude, by reaſon of the King's Abſence, when He was following the Wars in Flanders; the Seaſon of the Year and the Novelty of the thing, invited certain Perſons of Quality to a retreat in the Country; who had Souls ſo well fitted for Converſation, that having given the firſt part of the day to other noble Divertiſements, ſuch as the place afforded them variety of, they ſpent their Evenings in diſcourſing upon the Paſſions, and other things, which even in Deſarts people of Senſe may find entertainment in. But one night their Pleaſures were interrupted, or rather, to ſpeak more properly, varied by the arrival of the Poſt with Letters to ſeveral in the Company, and 'twas the general propoſal, they ſhould be read publickly, for the common ſatisfaction. —Monſieur Le Chevalier, one whoſe Wit render'd him not the leaſt conſiderable amongſt them, received that which follows.

IT is two Months ſince I had any Letter from you; from whene proceeds this ſilence? Have you ſo much forgot me, or has any Misfortune happen'd to you? Ah! how cruel are you? Tell me if there be any that has a greater Intereſt than I, in all that relates to you; and whether you ought to neglect me at ſuch a rate, as to believe you owe me not at leaſt this ſatisfaction. Alas! you love me not, ſince you can be thus long and not tell me you do. I find too unhappily, that all the marks you have given me of your Tenderneſs, were but purely an effect of your Wit; your Heart had no ſhare in them, at leaſt they proceeded from Complaiſance rather than Kindneſs, and were more the effects of Gratitude than Inclination: for I cannot imagine how a man can love (after the manner that I underſtand Love) and live as you do. You know, that you promiſed me in leaving this place, to give me an account of your Life every eight days. I ſuffered my ſelf to be ſo pleaſingly flatter'd with it, that it enabled me to bear more eaſily the firſt days of your abſence. There is nothing more eaſie than to abuſe the credulity of a Heart that loves one, but there is nothing more baſe, and unworthy. I endeavour'd to comfort my ſelf for your departure, after a continued happineſs, as your Preſence gave me, by the pleaſure I expected in a converſe by Letters, which would further engage Ʋs: But you have allow'd me that Pleaſure but a ſhort time; what have I done? and why had you not told me, that abſence was a deſtroyer of Friendſhip in you? Then perhaps I ſhould have been prepared for it, and not found my ſelf under the neceſſity of making complaints to you, of your ſelf. Endeavour to juſtifie your ſelf if you can, or deceive me by ſome falſe Reaſons. I am even deſperate to think you Criminal, and not to find an Excuſe for your Ingratitude, Adieu. Neglect not any thing to make me believe you are Faithful, and that you have not wronged me, Adieu.

The Company were ſo well pleaſed with this Letter, that they would not be ſatisfied without knowing upon what occaſion it was writ; and Monſieur Le Chevalier with ſome difficulty, was brought to make the following Relation.

It is ſome time ſince, That I made a Journy a conſiderable diſtance from Paris, where I was call'd by my affairs: But being the firſt time I was in that Country, it is no wonder I loſt my way. This misfortune happened to me when I leaſt thought of it; and I perceiv'd my Error too late to remedy it; for as it was dark, I found my ſelf in the midſt of a Wood, where the farther I went, the more I was intangled, and out of hopes to get out.—In fine, the Weather being very bad, and the ways worſe, I concluded it beſt to take my Lodging under a Tree, rather than expoſe my ſelf to a thouſand Accidents I might meet with in paſſing Rivers and ill ways, at ſuch a time of Night. I need not tell you the little pleaſure there is in being reduced to this Extremity; but it made me hope it would be the laſt Adventure of Knight-Errantry, that would ever happen to me.

Whilſt I was entertaining my ſelf with theſe unpleaſant Thoughts, a Peaſant, who by happy chance paſs'd that way to his own Houſe, came pretty near me; I ſent my Servant to deſire him to come to me, whom we engaged by good Words and Promiſes to guide Us to ſome Inn.— He told us, that we were three Leagues out of our way, and that he knew of no Lodging, but a League off, by the moſt deteſtable way in the World.—We arrived at laſt at a little Village, where there was but one houſe of Accommodation. God knows how ill I was Treated there, after having Knockt an hour at the door, to oblige our Hoſt to riſe; who, after all, would not open it, but upon the Faith of our Guide, who ſwore we were honeſt people: The Peaſant ſtayed with us, and eat, and drank with us, and lay in the ſame houſe. I, that had but a little miſerable Straw for a Bed, and a couple of vile Coverlets, paſs'd not the Night ſo well as he, but better however than I ſhould have done in the Wood. The trouble, and wearineſs, I had endured, ſupplied the want of a better Lodging, and ſerved me at laſt for a Pillow, ſo that about break of day I fell aſleep. I had not ſlept two hours when the Peaſant entered my Chamber, and waked me, very briskly to tell me, that Madam the Abbeſs expected me. I received this Complement with a very wicked Air, and knew not what he meant by this Madam the Abbeſs, and was in a mind to have forgot the obligation I had to him the night before: The poor man knew well, by the reception I made him, that I was not pleaſed, although he deſigned to do me Service; he went out to carry my Anſwer to the Perſon that ſent him: But for my part, I could not poſſibly recover my Sleep, and thought only of what this Man had ſaid to me, that an Abbeſs askt for me: I knew none in that Country, yet believed there might be ſome Convent there-abouts; but could not divine, why they ſhould ſend for me, unleſs they took me for another. VVhat ſoever it was, I confeſs that I made but an ill return to this Civility; and if the Peaſant was of an humour to tell all he ſaw, and the diſpleaſure which I diſcovered when I ſent him back, this Abbeſs had as much cauſe to complain of me, as I had reaſon to praiſe her: This reflection began to give me a little trouble, out of which I was delivered by the coming of the Almoner of this Lady, to tell me, with a little more Ceremony, that the Lady Abbeſs, to whom this Village did belong, being informed by her Shepherd, that a Man of Quality that had loſt his way, was conſtrained to take up in that miſerable Inn, had ſent him to intreat me to accept of a Lodging leſs incommodious than that was. This Complement brought ſome allay to my trouble; and I was in Charity with my Peaſant, ſince he procured me this honour that the Abbeſs did me; I anſwered the Almoner the moſt civilly that was poſſible, and deſired him to tell his Lady, that I had the moſt acknowledging Sentiments in the World for the favour ſhe did me; and that I would come my ſelf immediately to aſſure her of it: My Man was up, and I made him give me Cloaths better than ordinary, and with Gallantry enough prepared for this Viſit. The Peaſant that ſerved me for a Guide here, conducted me thither alſo. I was brought into the Parlour where I ſtayed not long for her coming.

I think it is beſt before I proceed further, to give you a deſcription of this Abbeſs: You muſt imagine her to be a Lady of about twenty eight years old, of an indifferent Stature, but well made; her Hair fair and thick; her Eyes blue and ſparkling; her Mouth admirably well; her Noſe very handſome, and her Teeth paſſable, with the ſhape of her Face ſo round and charming, that to ſay Truth, it was more fit to inſpire Love than Devotion: She had nevertheleſs an Air ſo ſweet and modeſt, that in pleaſing, it imprinted a reſpect in us, which abated our Courage; her Voice even had ſomething ſo particular, one cannot expreſs it. I ſaw this Perſon; and, if I muſt diſguiſe nothing from you, will confeſs ſhe touch't me at firſt fight. I remembred no longer the ill night I had paſſed; I almoſt forgot my ſelf, in ſuffering my ſelf to be wounded by this fair Priſoner: 'Tis true, I was not taken by Lines ſo ſtrong as could not be broken, or at leaſt ſtretched; yet not ſo ſlight neither, but that there remained in me a deſire to pleaſe a Perſon, that pleaſed me extreamly. She told me moſt obligingly, that ſhe wiſhed I had paſſed better hours than I had done in the Inn; and beſeeched me to ſpend that day with her, to repoſe my ſelf after the hardſhips I had endured the preceedent Night: Her requeſt was very kind, and as I excuſed it, I did it ſo coldly, that it might be eaſily ſeen that I had no mind to leave her yet; but as ſhe had a diſcerning and quick Wit, ſhe told me, that if ſhe had not all the power over me, that was neceſſary to ingage me to ſtay, ſhe did not doubt, but two or three of her Friends would be able to prevail with me, as ſoon as I had ſeen them, and that I had not reſolution enough to reſiſt their Prayers as I had done hers: She had no ſooner ſaid ſo, but ſhe made the Ladies to be called, of whom ſhe ſpoke; but I (who was willing to give her the entire honour) aſſured her that ſhe would tempt me in vain on that ſide, for a thing which none but ſhe could obtain of me, and that I did not believe that there was any thing in the World that had ſo much Power over the Spirit of a reaſonable Man, as ſhe, or could better make themſelves to be obeyed. This Complement was received of the Abbeſs, as I deſired: She had modeſty and virtue; yet flattery always found her weak ſide, and ſhe could rarely defend her ſelf from it: She knew, ſhe had beauty, and though ſhe ſerved not her ſelf of it, as a worldly perſon; neither did ſhe neglect it ſo much, but that ſhe had a certain joy in having it pleaſe. The three Nuns, her Friends, arrived as ſhe was going to anſwer, and changing ſuddenly her Thoughts; Here is (ſaid ſhe turning towards them) ſufficient to make you recal your words: theſe Ladies will perhaps teach you not to anſwer ſo eaſily for your ſelf, I will leave you with them for an hour, about ſome little buſineſs, and expect to find you at my return of another mind. I ſwear to you, Madam, (anſwered I ſoftly) I will remain in it for ever; and if I could imagine that I ſhould change, I would depart immediately. She anſwered only with a Smile, for fear of explaining her ſelf too much before theſe perſons. I began a very free Converſation with theſe three Ladies, and knew preſently that they affected not, what was ſerious, but with people whoſe Cenſures they apprehended: In effect, they ſeemed pleaſed with my freedom, and ſeated themſelves about me with much ſatisfaction. I never in my Life converſed with Perſons that had ſo much Wit; every thing, they ſaid, was ſpoke with much vivacity, that it charmed the Ears; and had not any thing in it of that Monaſtical Air, which ſpoils the beſt things that one can ſay, that is infected with it. I believe it will not tire you, if I make a deſcription of theſe Ladies, as well as the Abbeſs; eſpecially one of them, which was her Siſter; and who has the greateſt part in this Hiſtory, and writ me the Letter which you have read. She was a Woman of an admirable ſtature, very fair complexion'd; the ſhape of her Face oval; her Eyes fair, and full of fire; and if ſhe wanted any thing, 'twas a little colour; her Voice was very ſweet, and ſhe ſung divinely; there was never any thing better formed, and more Vermilion than her Mouth; the whiteneſs of her Teeth anſwered well to this admirable Carnation; and the Breath which came from this fair Mouth, was ſo ſweet, that it purified the moſt noiſome Air: I muſt add to all theſe perfections, that ſhe had as much Wit as 'twas poſſible one could have, and a Wit always at command, never ſpeaking any thing that was not worthy of admiration. I will go no farther with her 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 deſcription, it will be tireſom, ſince no longer the Mode; and will only ſay, that there was not any thing common in this Lady. The two others were Perſons amiable enough, the one had a little more Spritelineſs than the other; who in exchange had more Sincerity, which rendered her a particular Friend of the Abbeſs's Siſter.

In entertained theſe three Nuns for ſome time with indifferent things, wherein I endeavoured to diſcover as much Wit as I could: They did Wonders on their ſide to maintain the Converſation, particularly the Abbeſs's Siſter: This Charming Perſon ſaid not any thing, but what was new; in ſo much, that I believed there was not any thing in the World that had ſo much Wit, or could make ſo good uſe of it. The Abbeſs came at laſt, and certainly à propos. if ſhe had the leaſt deſire to retain what ſhe had gained upon me, for to ſpeak the truth, the merit of her Siſter appeared to me too great to give her leſs than a Heart. I was upon the point of changing my firſt opinion, as ſhe at her departure almoſt divined I ſhould; and I was juſt going to be perjur'd, if her preſence had not renew'd the Flame, which the firſt ſight of her had kindled in my Soul: her Siſter at leaſt hindred the progreſs of it; and I confeſs that had I not ſeen her, I ſhould have loved the Abbeſs very well. I never ſtirred from the Parlour all that day, being ſometimes with the one, and ſometimes with other of theſe two perſons.

I believe (continued Monſieur Le Chevalier) that the company will not deſire I ſhould make a long Story of this Adventure, nor trouble them with every little Circumſtance. Make not account (replyed the Marchioneſs) that we will allow you to omit the leaſt particular, which may be of Conſequence; and we expect You ſhould be as faithful in your Relation, as in your Gallantry. We may permit him (anſwered the Dutcheſs) to paſs over many little things which he may tell us another ſeaſon, that we may have time now for the reſt. I would know (purſued the ſame Lady, ſpeaking to the Cavalier) with what Air, and how you managed your ſelf with theſe two Ladies? and being VVitty, as they were, how could either of them ſuffer a Competitor? For me-thinks it is very difficult to deceive two Miſtreſſes, much more two Siſters, that you muſt almoſt always ſee together. I will tell you Madam (anſwered the Cavalier) what has happened to me in a year and halfs time, that I had the honour to be known to them. For the firſt time that I ſaw them, I ſtayed but a day and a half in the Viſit, but found enough in this, to make me deſire not to be long abſent; for all the time I ſtayed in that Province, I left them as late as I could, and came back again as early as poſſible. When I conſulted the different Sentiments I had for the two Siſters, I found, (at leaſt I thought ſo) that I was in love with the Abbeſs, and had a great eſteem; and a moſt tender Friendſhip for the other. I was charmed with the Beauty and Sweetneſs of the firſt, and at the ſame time ſenſibly affected with the Perfections and Merit of the other, and had for her a ſtrange kind of tenderneſs, even when I was with the Abbeſs.

I was not much put to it, to ſtudy my Actions at firſt; if there happened any thing remarkable in favour of the Eldeſt, the Younger was ready to attribute it to her Quality above her; and the Elder took all for Gallantry of Spirit, that I ſaid obligingly to the youngeſt: It is true, this ſimple Error laſted not long, for the more we love, the clearer ſighted we are in the matters to Rivals; ſo that both growing to have a little more eſteem for me than they had, they began to diſtruſt one another, and obſerved my Words, and Actions, with other Eyes than they had done hitherto: Sometimes, one told me, that I praiſed her Siſter, with that Exaggeration as was only proper to Love; the other reproacht me, that I always ſought the Abbeſs; and that ſhe obſerved, that I was not pleaſed, but when I was with her: All theſe little Complaints were but to make me declare my ſelf; and there was no Remedy, but I muſt do it, after having in vain avoided it.

The Abbeſs's Siſter (whom we will call Egidia) was the laſt that preſt me, but ſucceeded beſt. She found the opportunity of a particular entertainment, at a ſeaſon when ſhe knew her Siſter was ingaged by ſome affairs, that ſhe could not diſpence with: and looking upon me, with an Air the moſt tender in the World; Monſieur Le Chevalier (ſaid ſhe) It is no longer time to diſſemble any thing with you; you have Wit, and know but too well, that you are not indifferent to me; it is now five or ſix months ſince we have been acquainted, yet I have never ſaid any thing poſitively on this point; but this day I will do more for you, than you can expect from a Woman of my humour; 'tis to confeſs to you, that I have much tenderneſs and eſteem for you; if you know me, you will not think this Confeſſion little; and if you are obliged to me, it is for telling you that, which if I pleaſed might have been concealed all my Life

In the Tranſports, that this favour put me, I would have taken her Hand, and Kiſt it a thouſand times to teſtifie my joy to her; and how I conſidered ſo charming a Declaration; but ſhe hindered me, and pulling away her Hand, ſhe bid me hear her out. If you believe (purſued ſhe) that the favour I do you in this Declaration, merits any acknowledgment, give me that proof of it which I ſhall demand. You are too Gallant a Man, to be guilty of ſo much baſeneſs, as 'tis to deceive any one; much more, thoſe who have an eſteem, and Friendſhip for you:—It is ſome time ſince I diſcovered that the Lady Abbeſs loves you; ſhe her ſelf conceals it not from me.—Perhaps, becauſe ſhe knows, that I too am guilty of the ſame weakneſs: but ſhe is of opinion, that you love none but her; and, if I may believe your Eyes, your Heart has intelligence with her's. Tell me the Truth.—Do you love her in good earneſt? Tell me, that without imbarquing my ſelf further in this affair, I this moment ſacrifice to her the inclination that I have to love you: I am yet reaſonable enough to render Juſtice to my Rival (if you will have me call her ſo) and to confeſs to you that She merits all your thoughts; and ſhe is too haughty and conſcious of her worth to be ſatisfied with leſs; and to tell you the truth, though I am her Inferior, I am ſo jealous in this particular, that I ſhould not without much pain, conſent to give place even to her. Conſider with your ſelf a little, and—Madam, (ſaid I to her, not being able to forbear interrupting her) I have no need to conſider.—It is not three days, ſince I have but too clearly explained my ſelf to your Siſter; if ſhe would have underſtood me.—I avow, that her Goodneſs engaged me to many things, that I ſtole from you; but I am like to prove very ungrateful, if no leſs than my Heart will pay the Obligations I have to her.—'Twas on Thurſday laſt, in the evening, when you were in the Garden, that ſhe took her time to tell me, That I had but one ſtep to make me to poſſeſs her Heart intirely, and that this was, that I ſhould hereafter forbear to be ſo exceeding civil to you.—What is that you propoſe to me Madam? (Anſwered I, much ſurprized with what ſhe had ſaid) are you unjuſt enough to make me purchaſe your Heart, by ſuch a baſeneſs?—You muſt pardon me Madam, if you pleaſe—but I cannot believe, that you would indeed, make me ſo Criminal.—I underſtand you (replyed ſhe haſtly) and begin to know the fault, which my imprudence has made me to commit. —You eſteem not my Heart enough, to engage you to ſuch a loſs, as that of my Siſters.—But before you go too far, I would adviſe you, to examine what Sentiments ſhe has for you, and whether no other poſſeſs that eſteem, you pretend to, alone. Madam (anſwered I) I know not what paſſes in your Siſters Heart; but ſince I have received all imaginable Civilities from her, I ſhould have the greateſt regret in the World, if I gave her the leaſt cauſe to repent of it. You muſt however, reſolve upon it (replyed ſhe, with a tone, fierce, and diſdainful) or pretend no more to any Kindneſs from me, which cannot be obtained at another price. I was going to anſwer her, and ſhould have declared my ſelf ſo plainly, as to give her occaſion no longer to doubt of what paſt my Soul; when ſhe retired her ſelf, leaving me to conſider what I was to do.

Thus you ſee Madam (continued I ſpeaking to Egidia) what happened in this Converſation; I have ſeen the Abbeſs ſeveral times ſince; but whether ſhe could not find me alone, or that ſhe feared to know too ſoon, what ſhe would rather be ignorant of, ſhe has not ſince ſpoken to me of any ſuch thing.— I muſt confeſs the Truth, I eſteemed her fair, her Charms at firſt, ſurprized my tenderneſs; and what I yet feel for her is worthy a true Friend; I cannot refuſe to rank her in that number, though even your ſelf ſhould command the contrary.

This Charming Virgin was ſo pleaſed with the ſincerity, wherewith I ſpoke to her, and to find that there had no more paſſed between her Siſter and I, that ſhe willingly conſented to our friendſhip: and being aſſured (as ſhe was) of the intire poſſeſſion of my Love, ſhe could not reaſonably do leſs.

We parted very well ſatisfied, and more amorous than before, at leaſt it was ſo on my ſide; that ſoft tenderneſs, which I at firſt had for her, had already took the form of a ſtrong Paſſion, which increaſed dayly, whilſt that I had for the Abbeſs diminiſhed as faſt, almoſt before I perceived it. The Confeſſion of Egidia, of what ſhe felt for me, appeared to me ſo full of Charms, that it finiſhed the Conqueſt of my Soul; and there remained no more of it to her Siſter, then what was ſufficient to ſay, I did not hate her. I lookt upon her no more, but as a Friend, and a Perſon to whom I was very much obliged: She quickly obſerved it, either that ſhe perceived ſome alteration in my manner of acting, or that ſhe feared her Siſter more ſince we diſcourſed together. I obſerved, that ſhe took notice of all I did, and that ſhe had not that Confidence in me, ſhe was accuſtomed to have: She affected even not to believe any thing I ſaid to her.—But when with Egidia it was not the ſame, for what jealouſie ſoever ſhe felt, ſhe diſcovered none of it to her; but always ſpoke of me, as poſſeſſing a Heart, which ſhe did not fear to loſe. She forced her ſelf ſometimes to rally upon what ſhe ſaw Egidia do for me. In ſo much, that one day Egidia could not hide her Reſentments, nor ſuffer without impatience to ſee her Triumph over her, when ſhe was well ſatisfied, that ſhe had no reaſon for it; and that, ſhe intimated to her in terms malicious enough. I believe (anſwered the Abbeſs, in a fierce tone, and full of ſcorn) that my intereſt is ſo great in that Chevalier, that none will diſpute it with me, or if any durſt do it, that it would be in vain. Egidia failed not to anſwer her, and this little difference proceeded ſo far, that not being ble to be Judges, where themſelves were parties; they agreed to refer it to me, and ingage me to explain my ſelf before them, and that ſhe who ſhould be worſt treated, ſhould ſacrifice to the other all the inclination ſhe had for me.

I imagine, that this converſation had ſomething in it very ſingular, and that there would have been a very delightful Scene for any one that had heard it. This reſolution being taken, Egidia, who was a prudent Woman, when ſhe reflected on what ſhe had engaged her ſelf too, choſe rather to renounce the Glory, which this Victory might bring her, (for ſhe did not at all doubt of it) then expoſe me to thoſe ill Conſequences, which might follow this Declaration. Whereupon ſhe writ me this Letter.

I Am juſt now come from laying a Wager, in which winning or loſing, I am furiouſly interreſſed: the Abbeſs and my Self, are coming to ask a final Declaration from You: After Dinner, You muſt Diſcover to which ſide your Heart inclines: I am ready to flatter my ſelf, that you Owe it to none but me.—But alas! How can I gueſs, what will happen? I could not refuſe the Wager, and it would have been too much my Rivals Glory, if I had.—Be ••• d nevertheleſs, to what my Generoſity can carry me! I conſent (to pre ent the ill Conſequences that may happen) that rendring me Juſtice in your Heart, you pronounce it in Fa •• ur of my Eldeſt Siſter. Adieu. Tell her you love her better than I; but for ever love me better than hr.

This Letter put me into ſome Confuſion; but ſince I muſt take the part of One, I reſolved without diſpute what to do.—And as I remember, this was the Anſwer I made to Egidia's Letter.

I Beg your Pardon, Madam, that I cannot obey You; I muſt Declare my true Sentiments when I am obliged to ſpeak; and your Generoſity muſt not be repayed with Baſeneſs; 'tis true, it would be only ſo in appearance, yet ſince: you are engaged, every thing ſhall go on your ſide.—But after ſuch a proof of my Paſſion, will you be at leaſt perſvaded, that I love you as I ought? You muſt permit me to abſent my ſelf, for ſome time after I have undeceived your Siſter; for there is no doubt but your Wager will produce ill Conſequences; —it muſt be you that muſt ſuſtain the burthen of them, ſince you would intangle your ſelf in them. Adieu.

I gave this Anſwer to the Boy that brought me her Letter; and bid my Man the ſame moment, get every thing in order, to go away preſently, if there were ccaſion for it. I paſt the reſt of the Morning in the Garden, in muſing upon the queſtion that was prepared for me.

I forgot to tell you at the beginning, that this was one of thoſe Convents, where the Nuns enjoy a honeſt liberty, and where Kindred, and particular Friends are permitted to enter, and ſee them in their Apartments.

I went to Dine with the Abbeſs, as the place where I ordinarily eat at, and was very melancholy at Table contrary to my Cuſtom, for commonly I was ſo happy as to divert the Company well enough, which is often the beſt ragouſt at Meals: the two intereſſed Ladies, were the firſt that obſerved it, and the Abbeſs ſaid ſeveral obliging things to me, to put me in a better humor; but ſeeing I did not anſwer her; She at laſt, ask'd me, what the matter was with me, that made me ſo ſerious? I told her it was a deſperate pain in my head that had taken me ſince the Morning.

She had not neglected any thing that day, to make her ſelf appear fair; and though the Dreſs of all Nuns, are almoſt alike, yet I avow to you, that I found ſomething in hers ſo particular and agreeable, that with the ſweet, and obliging manner wherewith ſhe ſpake to me, the reſolution I had taken to break with her, began to give me ſome pain, and without the preſence of her Siſter, ſhe had been powerful enough, perhaps to have made me repent it.—There was always two or three other Nuns of the Abbeſs's Friends, that uſed to eat with us, whom ſhe ſubtilly rid her ſelf of, ſo ſoon as ſhe had dined. —There was no need of Witneſſes to what paſt between the Abbeſs, her Siſter, and my Self. The Abbeſs toucht again upon the Sadneſs ſhe ſaw in my Looks, and ſaid that ſhe had never ſeen me in ſo ill a humour, and that I would oblige her, to let her know the cauſe of it. I anſwered her, as before, that it was a great pain in my head: But not ſatisfied with that, ſhe told me, that ſhe ſaw ſomething in my Eyes, that made her judge that my Diſtemper was ſomething more than I ſeemed willing to diſcover; and that I was unjuſt to conceal from my Friends (who were equally concerned with my ſelf in any misfortune that cou d befal me,) any thing wherewith I was ſo much affected; and that I ought to give her the ſatisfaction at leaſt of truſting her, though perhaps it was not in her power to cure me.—I do not believe (ſaid her Siſter, to ſave me the trouble of anſwering her) that there is any other cauſe than what he has told you. One often ſees (continued ſhe) that people who have ſo much Wit as Monſieur Le Chevalier, are ſubject to theſe terrible Headachs, and that they paſs from one extremity to the other, that is, from great Mirth, to as great Melancholy. You believe then Siſter (anſwered the Abbeſs coldly) that you know Monſieur's diſtemper, ſince you take upon you to anſwer for him; yet I will imagine that it is not as you ſay, but believe what he ſhall tell me, of it. And if he'l follow my advice (ſaid Egidia) he ſhall tell you nothing.—I do know it; and it is ſo much the harder, for people that know it not, to judge well of it. Believe me (ſaid the Abbeſs, with a malicious Smile) if I ask to know it, 'tis not that I am ignorant of it; but to diſabuſe others, who, I ſee, are ſo fond of what they fancy they enjoy, that they fear to be undeceived. —I conjure you Ladies, (interrupted I, all of a ſudden) leave me as I am.—Whatſoever my Diſeaſe is, and whenceſoever it comes, I neither can—nor will be cured of it if I cou'd;—I would only ſuffer leſs. For my part (ſaid the Abbeſs) I who pretend not to divine, nor to penetrate ſo deep into Hearts, as my Siſter, would willingly be told of what nature this Diſtemper is; and perhaps (inſenſibility not being my Vice, for certain people in the World) I might give 'em eaſe, if it lay in me to ſweeten their Torments. There could not be any thing more Gallant, nor Favourably ſaid for me; and I believe, that I ſhould have anſwered her as ſhe deſired, had not Egidia, (looking ſuddenly upon me) made me, remember my promiſe, and put me in a ſtate of not knowing what to ſay. This amiable Lady perceived the Confuſion, I was in, and very opportunely put in, to the diſcourſe. It is true (ſaid ſhe) there are certain ills, that one muſt have recourſe to the perſon that cauſed them, for a remedy: but if I be'nt miſtaken, this is not Monſieur's caſe; and you are deceived if you believe, that you are capable of curing his Diſtemper. —Whatever it is (purſued ſhe) I am ſo ſenſible for all that concerns him, that I ſhall not be inquiſitous to hear any of his misfortunes. For you Madam (continued ſhe, ſpeaking to her Siſter) if you have this deſire, you may ſatisfie your ſelf, —but you ſhall permit me, if you pleaſe, to retire.

—And after theſe Words, ſhe went away, and left me alone with the Abbeſs, who believing ſhe had cauſe to triumph told me, with a joy, ſhe cou'd not conceal, that ſhe ſaw well, that my Heart was quitted to her, ſince the place was, and that it was ſhe muſt cure me of the ills whereof I complained; but ſhe ſaid, She muſt know of my ſelf, how she was eſtabliſhed in my Heart, and how much above her Siſter,—that she had given me time enough to conſider of it, and 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 that I muſt reſolve one way, either not to hope any thing from her Tenderneſs, or not divide a good that she deſired the intire poſſeſſion of. —That she'd allow, I should have a tender eſteem for her Siſter, but for my Heart, she would fill it wholly her ſelf; and that she had merit enough for it.—She was ſilent here, to ſee a little what I would ſay, but I made no anſwer; and I believe that my ſilence told her enough, and that she took it for a wicked Omen. Some moments after, (ſeeing me ready to ſpeak, as one that had ſtudied what to ſay) she prevented me (apprehending (it is likely) that I would explain my ſelf contrary to what she deſired) My God! (ſaid she) one has little reaſon to be ſatisfied with you to day; if one were not of a humour to pardon you every thing, and that one had not pity for you in this diſorder.— Go, and repoſe your ſelf in your Chamber,—the pain in your Head requires it,—and I shall take care that none diſturbs you. —I retired with this permiſſion, —with ſo much Confuſion that I ſcarce knew what I did; but I was not got to the door when she called me back.—Hark ye Monſieur (ſaid she with an Air full of ſweetneſs) I will ſee you at eight of the Clock this Night in the Arbour of the farther Alley, where I'll expect you with one of my Friends; and, if you love me you'l not fail to be there. What do I ſay (continued she haſtily) if you love me?—Though you should not love me, you are too much a Gentleman to fail at a Rendezvous that I give you, there not being any thing that I know, that can diſpence with you, from it.—Adien, —fail not to be there. Finishing theſe words, she smiled, and went into her Cloſet, to conceal from me a Bluſh, that came into her Face.

Behold! (continued Monſieur Le Chevalier) how I came out of this Converſation that I had ſo much dreaded, which was much more lucky for me than I expected, having eſcaped a terrible Confuſion, that I should have been in, to have declared my ſelf before theſe two Ladies, what choice my Heart had made: But I was not without fear of my Evening aſſignation; I ſaw well, she would expect me, and that it was the laſt favour I was like to receive from her.—But ſince there was no avoiding of it, I was reſolved not to diſguiſe any thing by unworthy Equivocatings; thinking I should do well to ſerve my ſelf of this occaſion, that I should find her alone to diſabuſe her, and not delay it to a longer time: The honours and favours she did me augmented dayly, and ſo did my ingratitude, whilſt she continued in her Error. It is true, it would have been unpardonable, if it had been voluntary, but there is no choice againſt powerful inclination. —I determined upon this piece of juſtice, and was the reſt of the Afternoon preparing my ſelf for it.

They went to Supper about Six of the Clock, to have more time to Walk, and I appeared leſs melancholy at Table than at Noon: Egidia, who had not ſeen me ſince ſhe left me with her Siſter, (though ſhe had ſought me with extreme impatience, to ask me what paſs'd in that enterview) judg'd from the alteration ſhe ſaw in my humor, that I had betrayed her. I ſaw her much diſcompos'd, and that ſhe ſcarce eat any thing, ſhe was ſo full of thoughts: She had her Eyes always upon me or the Abbeſs, to ſurprize our looks, and ſee whether we were of Intelligence to deceive her. She had not patience to ſit ſo long at Table as the reſt, but left us upon a ſlight Pretext that ſhe took, and retir'd into her Chamber; from whence ſhe ſent me word by one of her Friends (that cunningly acquitted her ſelf of the Commiſſion) that ſhe deſired me to come ſpeak with her there, ſo ſoon as I had Sup'd. I failed not to wait on her, and took ſo well my time when the Abbeſs was with two or three Ladies that came to viſit her, that ſhe perceived it not. I found this Lady fitting by a Table which ſhe lean'd upon, with a very ſad air, who told me as I entred, that I had no ſmall obligation to her, for giving me occaſion, by quitting the place, to come ſo well out of this affair at her coſt; and that ſhe doubted not but her Siſter too had made an advantage of it, but that ſhe loved me ſo well, that ſhe could not repent of any thing that was for my ſatisfaction; and that when it was for my repoſe, ſhe would ſacrifice all things, even her heart. But changing preſently her diſcourſe, By what charm (ſaid ſhe) or rather by what ingagement, hath the Abbeſs brought you into good humor? For methinks you appear very gay this Evening. Alas! You were very melancholy this morning, have you ſome pledge of her heart that gives you thus much joy? Speak, Monſieur, conceal not any thing from me: You have betray'd me, and without doubt could not ſave your ſelf out of my Rivals hands, but on theſe conditions. Betray'd you, Madam I (anſwered I) I beg you will tell me upon what ground you have ſuch a Suſpicion? Believe, if you pleaſe, that being far from thinking it, I—No, no, Monſieur, (ſaid ſhe interrupting me) I ſee well you know me not: I am capable of loving better than you think, I cannot be ſatisfied with your heart by peace meal, I would have it intire to my ſelf, and I confeſs I have lived in a doubtful hope for ſome time, that I ſhould obtain it as I deſired to have it. My Siſter has given me a thouſand Inquietudes, and I was alarmed by the leaſt of her looks; that a continual trouble hath not left me, to enjoy in quiet the pleaſure there is to believe one is loved where one loves. But after ſo many alarms, I am a little perſwaded—I am reſolved your Love ſhall not continue divided, though I loſe my ſhare of it; And you, Monſieur, (continued ſhe) muſt reſolve in good earneſt to love the Abbeſs, and endeavour to pleaſe her only. You'l not poſſibly have ſo much pain to do it as I wiſh, but however I expect ſhe ſhould confeſs to owe the obligation of it to me, and know that I was the firſt that motion'd it. I avow to you (purſued ſhe, making a ſign to me not to interrupt her) that I am not without pain for the loſs of you, and that what I am now doing is harder to me than death; but I will conquer, and if I have any power over you, make you do as I ſay, and look upon me no more but as one of your Friends. As ſhe ended theſe words, as ſtream of Tears forced themſelves from her fair eyes, and ſhe was ſo ſtrangely overwhelmed with grief, that my Heart was rack'd to ſee it: I could not anſwer her ſuddenly, but embracing her tenderly, I admired the Generoſity and good Nature of this Lady: This tender paſſion which I diſcover'd through her Tears, pierced to the very bottom of my Soul; and I determin'd rather to ſacrifice my Life, than give her occaſion to doubt my Faith to her. I made her a thouſand proteſtations of my conſtancy, when I was able to ſpeak; and in the Eſtate wherein I was, not being capable of any weak expreſſion, I ſaid ſo many touching things to her, that ſhe was no longer willing to loſe me. After we had ſpent ſome time in tenderneſs, and Tranſports which are not to be deſcribed; I left her, excuſing my ſelf with pretence of ſome buſineſs (without telling her of my aſſignation with the Abbeſs, leſt ſhe ſhould prevent it) but that I would wait on her again before I went to Bed.

The hour was paſt that I promis'd to meet the Abbeſs, and the tears of the charming Egidia had ſo well diſpoſed me to do all things for her, that I dyed with deſire to give her this teſtimony of my love, after that ſhe had given me of her tenderneſs. I went then to the place, where I found the Abbeſs with one of her Friends, that retired ſo ſoon as ever ſhe ſaw me coming.

She told me that ſhe began to be weary of expecting me, and if I had ſtayed a moment longer, ſhe would ſcarce have pardoned me. I believ'd Madam (anſwered I, coldly enough) that I ſhould come time enough for what you had to ſay to me. She was much ſurpriſed with that anſwer, after the obliging Reception ſhe had made me; but ſhe endeavoured to diſſemble it, and without taking notice of my unjuſt coldneſs, treated me with all the ſweetneſs in the world: There was nothing that was ingaging but ſhe made uſe of it, nor enchantment that ſhe ſerved not her ſelf of. It ſuffices that a Woman is fair, and not indifferent to one, to make one find a thouſand charms in her, when ſhe deſigns to pleaſe. The reſolution I had taken againſt this fair Abbeſs, became by little and little unprofitable, at leaſt very weak: She drew from me a thouſand tenderneſſes I know not how, and was no longer the Perſon I would abandon: She poſſeſs'd me ſo much in thoſe few moments, that there was ſcarce room left in my Soul for the Idea of the amiable Egidia: To ſay the truth, the Abbeſs knew ſo well how to rekindle flames ſhe had once made burn, that 'twas impoſſible to defend ones ſelf from her: One would ſay, that ſhe had ſtudied nothing all her life but to charm, and the moſt faithful of Lovers had been pardonable for every infidelity ſhe had made him guilty of; for it was not in the power of man to do his duty when ſhe ſeduced him. But not to detain you longer, (when there are ſo many things to ſay) I muſt confeſs to you that ſhe made me know, one cannot be aſſured of any thing where a woman uſes complaiſance. If this Lady was not ſatisfied with me, ſhe had, at leaſt, no occaſion to complain: One thing might ſurpriſe you, and give you an ill opinion of me, after the reſolution I had taken; if I had not told you that the Abbeſs had charms none could reſiſt; and that was, that I begg'd of her my ſelf that ſhe would not preſs me to declare my ſelf in that ſhe would know of me, but content her ſelf with the power ſhe had over me. And it was ſo great, that without lying I believe ſhe might have made me guilty of the blackeſt perfidiouſneſs in the world; but by good fortune ſhe was willing not to paſs further, becauſe perhaps ſhe feared not to ſucceed, and that 'twas not yet her time. She had had intelligence by ſome of thoſe that were continually her Spies, of the Viſit I made her Siſter, and that they had ſeen her Eyes wet with Tears: She made ſome ralleries upon it, and told me that ſhe well knew by my accoſt, the ſtrange impreſſion theſe tears had made in my Soul; but ſhe would pardon me hoping that in time I would accuſtom my ſelf to ſee people weep. She ſaid all this, and many other things, with an air ſo agreeable, that I knew not how to be diſpleaſed with it. the mean while, it grew very late, which I gave her notice of, though ſhe was not much pleaſed with it, and told me that I was the moſt impertinent Gallant in the world; but it was time for us to retire, which we did with a tender adieu, that engaged us more than ever.

All the ſweetneſs ſhe had overwhelmed me with, hindred not a great repentance that ſucceeded it, and fill'd my heart with a horrible gall, ſo ſoon as ſhe was out of my ſight: But this was nothing, there muſt be ſomething more to puniſh me for my injuſtice to Egidia. The Abbeſs met her upon her return back, and maliciouſly ask'd her where I was. I know not (anſwered Egidia) but I ſuppoſe that not being well, he went to his Chamber betimes. You are deceived, Siſter, (anſwered the Abbeſs) and I will tell you that I know his diſtemper better than you do: I perſwaded him to take the Air in the Garden, and that would cure him; as in effect he finds himſelf better: You may know it from himſelf, whom I parted with here not a moment ſince. Egidia remained the moſt ſurpriſed in the world, and knew not what to anſwer her; it was not poſſible to conceal from her a part of her reſentment, for which the Abbeſs triumph'd with an extreme joy, and left her in that eſtate. This poor Lady could not tell what to think, after what I had ſaid to her, and the Oaths I had made her two hours before: She had too good an opinion of me, to believe lightly at another time what my Siſter would ſay to my diſadvantage, but in this ſhe could neither doubt nor excuſe me. the Treaſon was but too manifeſt, and every thing ſpoke againſt me. She was at firſt agitated with a thouſand different paſſions, and ſo much grief ſeiz'd her at once, that ſhe was not the ſame; one is always apt to believe what one fears. The firſt thing that ſhe deſired was to ſee me, and ſhe ſent her Footboy to fetch me to her: I came, and by the impreſsment ſhe had to ſpeak with me, I had ſome ſuſpicion of the truth: I imagined that this rendezvouz had not been ſo ſecret, but that ſhe had made ſome ſhift to come to the knowledg of it; but did not think that the Abbeſs would ſo ſpitefully declare it

I found this afflicted Lady alone in a retired room, and ſaluting her, I ſaw her ſo moved, and in ſuch diſorder, that I no longer doubted but ſhe knew of my being in the Garden with her Siſter. She ſpoke not to me at firſt, and, for my part, my guilt, and the grief I was in for being in a fault, had the ſame effect upon me, that anger and jealouſie had upon her; ſo that we were both ſometime without ſaying any thing: But at laſt, From whence come you? (ſaid ſhe, with low voice and with looking at me) I anſwered her that her Boy had met me as I was going to my Chamber. What! (replyed ſhe, with a more elevated voice, and regarding me with eyes fuller of grief than anger) have you to do a new Treaſon? Did you make me ſo many promiſes this Evening, but to deceive me with more eaſe? What have I done to you? After theſe words grief deprived her of ſpeech, and ſhe was juſt ſwooning away.

I cannot repreſent to you the eſtate I was in, to ſee a Perſon dying that was ſo dear to me: Ah! How cruel were the moments, and how happy I ſhould have been to have dyed alſo, if Heaven would have heard me, and not laugh at the pains which Love makes us ſuffer? I look'd upon her as a man without ſenſe or motion, and had not the power to aſſiſt her nor cal, for help This fainting had not ſo far taken away her ſenſes, but that ſhe obſerved upon my face a concern that ſpoke for me, and nothing (as ſhe has ſince told me) made her return ſooner from this cruel indiſpoſition, than the intereſt ſhe ſaw I had in it. The ſilence and confuſion I was in made my peace, and all her grief was not ſtrong enough to reſiſt the ſatisfaction ſhe received from mine.

By good fortune two Nuns paſs'd by juſt then, who ſeeing her in that eſtate, immediately run to us, and thought that ſhe was fallen into ſome Fits that Women are ſubject to: This made a noiſe in the Convent, and the Abbeſs was with the firſt informed of it, but was not over-haſty to ſuccour her. For my part, I retired as ſoon as I ſaw there were people enow about her: Although the Abbeſs ſent three or four times to ſpeak with me, I pray'd her to excuſe me, and ſaid, that next day I would wait her pleaſure. Egidia (that they had carried to her Chamber) was come to her ſelf again, and ſeeing me not by her Bed ſide, at a time that ſhe believed, if I had loved her, I could not have left her; ask'd a Maid that ſerved her ſoftly, if ſhe knew where I was? This Maid that had ſeen me go into my Chamber the moment I quitted her Miſtreſs, with tears flowing from my eyes, made a faithful relation of it to her, wherewith ſhe was ſo extremely touch'd, that ſhe prayed her Siſter, who ſate by her, to ſend for me. The Abbeſs put her off a good while, and told her that ſhe had already done it twice to no purpoſe; and that ſhe would no more ask to be refuſed. Egidia, who paſſionately deſired to ſee me, and could not endure I ſhould paſs the Night in the ſadneſs wherein I was; reſolved to try if ſhe could prevail: She thought ſhe ſhould not hazard much, nor loſe much credit, if ſhe could not obtain of me more than her Siſter. She ſent to me then the ſame Maid that ſhe confided in ſo much, to tell me, that if I deſired ſhe ſhould be better, I ſhould come to ſee her before I went to Bed, and that ſhe expected it, if I had yet a little Love for her. I cannot tell you how ready I was to obey her, thoſe who love may eaſier imagine it: I came then to her Chamber, where was none but the Abbeſs with her; who expected with impatience to ſee how this Scene wou d paſs: Both of them perceived preſently a change of countenance in me. I know not well what the Eldeſt thought, but I am ſure I cauſed pity in the younger. This poor Lady look'd upon me with an air ſo tender and touching, that I could not forbear (notwithſtanding the preſence of her Siſter) caſting my ſelf on my knees before her, and taking one of her hands, kiſs'd it a thouſand times, and wet it with my tears which I had not power to reſtrain. There is no doubt but the Abbeſs ſaw with an ill will theſe ſenſibilities: Theſe were cruel ſtrokes, which ſhe could not forbear diſcovering her reſentments of, whatſoever endeavours ſhe uſed to prevent it. Certainly Siſter, (ſaid ſhe with a tone that ſurpriſed us) Monſieur Le Chevalier hath done you ſome great injury, by the manner wherewith he ſeems to beg pardon of you: You cannot refuſe it to his tears; yet (continued ſhe, riſing to go away) if you will be adviſed by me, you ſhall not do any thing, till he has promiſed you never to relapſe into the ſame fault again; and I'll anſwer for him, that he cannot promiſe it, or if he do, that he will be perjur'd. Make this gallant peace, I will retire and leave you alone, for I believe you deſire no Witneſſes. I turned my head to anſwer her, but ſhe was got out of the Room, and ſaved me the diſpleaſure I ſhould have had afterwards, to have ſaid any thing in a paſſion unbecoming the reſpect I owel her. I remained then alone with Egidia, and in greater confuſion than when the Abbeſs was there: Although I had many things to ſay, I knew not where to begin, and ſilence was the only Language of which I ſerved my ſelf: But ſhe, who ſuffered to ſee me afflicted, (though it was for the Love of her) after having endeavoured to reaſſure me by her looks; Well, Monſieur, (ſaid ſhe in a ſoft tone, and ſqueezing my hand) don't you repent of having betrayed the beſt of your Friends? Think well what you have ſometimes ſaid to me: How had you then the courage to deceive me? Speak!—She made me yet a thouſand other reproaches, to which ſhe added a hundred things that I cannot relate as they were ſaid. In a word (to paſs lightly over a Subject which touches me yet in deſcribing it) I juſtified my ſelf to her as well as I cou'd; confeſſed our rendezvouz, what had obliged me to it, and the reaſon I had to conceal it from her; ſo that ſhe was well ſatisfied with me. I ſaw her as ſweet as ever, and ſhe diſcovered more tenderneſs and confidence in me than ever, that it made amends for all the pain we had endured that night: We never loved ſo well, and this little diſcontent ſerved but to increaſe the flames which were kindled in us. The hour was already paſs'd that in civility I ſhould have retired at: I had no mind the Abbeſs ſhould ſend me word ſo, as ſhe might have done, but the misfortune was, (the doors of the Convent being ſhut, except thoſe of her Apartment) I muſt of neceſſity paſs that way to my Lodging. 'Tis true, that in the eſtate wherein I was, fortified with the powerful charms of her Siſter, I made little reflection upon what I ought to fear: I examined not the danger there was, and felt Egidia ſo deep in my heart, that I was even glad (at leaſt I fancied ſo) of this occaſion to defie all the inchantments of the Abbeſs. I took then, ſince there was no avoiding it, that way to my Chamber, paſſing through the midſt of hers; where ſhe was alone and undreſs'd. She offered at firſt to ſtay me a moment with her, but I excuſed my ſelf upon pretence it was late, and ſhould incommode her: She anſwered me, that ſhe knew well enough I was perſwaded I could never be troubleſom to her, whatſoever hour it was. But to avoid the ceremony I might yet uſe, ſhe commanded me to take a Seat by her, for ſhe had ſomething to ſay to me, and wou'd be obey'd. If you pleaſe (anſwered I) I will wait till to morrow. No (replyed ſhe briskly) once more I will ſay it now to puniſh you for your want of complaiſance— 'tis leſs to oblige than torment you. I turned this conſtraint into rallery, and called it a ſweet violence, being it was not in my power to diſobey her, for ſhe had cauſed the doors to be ſhut by which I was to paſs. I told her then (not to appear rude, nor having a deſire to break unhandſomly with her) that the endeavours ſhe uſed to ſtay me were extremely charming; that there was never a man in the world, that would not eſteem it great favour, eſpecially at ſuch an hour. I am of opinion (ſaid ſhe) that it might paſs for ſuch in moſt mens thoughts but in yours, and who expreſſes any goodneſs to you, muſt expect in return but indifference and ſlights. I believe it is not requiſite to make you a longer relation of what the Abbeſs ſaid to me, and what I anſwered her: It ſuffices that you know in general that I needed only to ſee her, to be ſhaken in my ſtrongeſt reſolutions: Once more I knew not what weakneſs I had when near her, but 'tis certain ſhe made me quite different from what I was, and I remembred no more the deſign I had to diſingage my ſelf from her. She was this night in a charming undreſs, that in its negligence had a great deal of Art. I am afraid I ſhall paſs with you that don't know this charming Abbeſs, for the greateſt Traitor, and baſeſt of Men: I was near two hours with this fair Enchantreſs, and left her as a Man that had ſcarce the power to do ſo. What joy, what triumph was this for her? I was no more the indifferent that deſpiſed her favours, but a re-conquer'd Lover, who left her not without regret; but certain it is, that I paſs'd the reſt of the Night very ſadly, and made my ſelf all the reproaches imaginable. The charms of this Abbeſs had ſomething in them which had not power longer than I ſaw them; for a moment after I had loſt ſight of her I came to my ſelf, ſaw my crime, and could not enough repent of it.

In the firſt viſit I made Egidia, I gave her a faithful account of all that paſs'd between the Abbeſs and I: I told her the perfidiouſneſs I had been guilty of, at which ſhe but laught, ſeeing with how much freedom I confeſs'd it; yet ſhe had a deſire to be revenged of her Siſter, which ſhe was after this manner.

I have already told you how the Apartments of theſe two Ladies were not far from each other, which made them always together, tho' they loved not much. Egidia knew how deſirous her Siſter was to have my Picture which I had given her, but ſhe always kept it lock'd up for fear of her; the Abbeſs waiting but an occaſion to ſeize of it: Egidia gave her fair hopes: for one day leaving her Cabinet open (having taken the Picture with her) went to walk in the Garden, and gave the Abbeſs time enough to ſatisfie her ſelf if ſhe could have found what ſhe ſought, and had not ſeen there what for her repoſe ſhe deſired not to ſee. The poor Abbeſs perceived not the intended malice of her Siſter: She ſearch'd every where unprofitably for the Picture, but believed not wholly to have loſt her labour, having found ſeveral of my Letters to Egidia. She ſhut her ſelf up in the Cloſet to read them: There was two or three wherein I ſpoke of her; of which here is one, whereby you may judge of the reſt.

I Am deſperate, Madam, when I hear you ſay that I love you not; and that, Madam, the Abbeſs hath ſeized on my heart: Do juſtice to your merit, and if you know your ſelf well, you will believe you are not to be put in the ballance together. If I could have divided my heart (as you ſay) I would take away the half of it from you this moment, to puniſh your incredulity. Fear not any thing, poſſeſs this poor heart in quiet, and leave appearances to your Siſter, which I cannot refuſe her without paſſing for the moſt ingrateful of men, as in effect I am. Adieu.

You ſee well this Letter was none of the moſt obliging for the Abbeſs, and it is not neceſſary, I imagine, to tell you how much ſhe was enraged at it: Spite, Jealouſie, and Shame, to ſee her ſelf ſo uſed by a man that ſhe had had ſo much goodneſs for, inſpired her at firſt with the moſt cruel deſigns that an injured woman is capable of. She came furiouſly out of the Cloſet, after having tore all the Letters in a thouſand pieces, as ſhe would have done my heart had it been in her power; and but for the intreaties of a Lady that was her friend, I know not whither her reſentments would have hurried her. This Lady (who was her confident in all things, and had much diſcretion) endeavoured by degrees to make her come to her ſelf: She told her that ſhe ought to be careful of her conduct, and that to make a buſsle in ſuch an affair would not be to her advantage; that ſhe ought to conſider the place ſhe was in, and that this would prove no good example for her Nuns. But what arguments could make her diſgeſt ſo cruel an affront! All that this good Lady could obtain of her was, that ſhe ſhould not ſee me all that day to have more time to conſider what ſhe had to do.

Egidia returned at laſt from her walk, and going into her Cloſet, found all in diſorder there, and the Letters in the condition that I told you: The pleaſure of revenge (which is the greateſt of life to women) made her taſt, in this occaſion, contentments, that one muſt be a Woman and a Lover to comprehend. She could not be long without communicating to me an adventure that ſhe rejoyced ſo much in; but firſt ſhe would prepare me to receive it, that I might not be troubled at it: And having ſent for me into her Chamber, ſhe ask'd me what I would ſay if ſhe had made a quarrel between me and her Siſter? I anſwered her, that provided ſhe was not intereſted therein, I ſhould not be concerned at it. She related to me afterwards the effects of the Abbeſs's jealouſie, and ſhewed me in what a condition my Letters were. I diſcovered no trouble at firſt, but at the bottom of my heart I approved not the action; and when I reflected on all that I had writ to her, I could have wiſhed that ſhe had made uſe of ſome other means, and that ſhe had taken other arms for her revenge. I doubted not but the Abbeſs was in a ſtrange fury, and that this affair would draw ſome ill conſequences in which Egidia would be the firſt ſufferer: I could not forbear expreſſing ſome of my fears to her, but aſſuring her withal, that I would never cenſure any thing that ſhe did; but that knowing ſo well as I did her Siſters temper, I feared all things from her paſſion, and that it would be through her that ſhe would revenge her ſelf of me. I ſaid all this in a very tender manner, but however Egidia took it not ſo, who looking upon me with ſpiteful ſmile, I ſee (ſaid ſhe) I have alarm'd you, and that I have not done you good ſervice. Go, Monſieur, (continued ſhe, riſing at the ſame time to go away) go, and caſt your ſelf at her feet; ſwear to her that you adore her, and ask her pardon for all you have writ to me. I! Madam (anſwered I in ſtopping her) to accuſe me of ſo much baſeneſs is to diſavow my heart. Ah! ſuffer if you pleaſe, that I tell you, you know me but ill, and that I am ready to confeſs to her all the paſſion I have for you in my heart: You ſhall ſee it if you will, and exact from me even greater proofs of my Love; you may do it, and I give you all this day to have yet this pleaſure, but to morrow I muſt leave you, and you ſhall ſee how little I am in pain for your Siſters favour. This ſudden reſolution ſurprized Egidia a little, and ſhe was troubled that ſhe had driven matters ſo far: She embraced me tenderly, and did all ſhe could to make me change my deſign; but with much difficulty I left her without promiſing her any thing. I ſpent the remainder of that day thinking what to reſolve upon, and after all I concluded it beſt to depart; but that which troubled me was, how I ſhould take my leave with the Abbeſs, which was a duty I could not diſpence with. I took the time that I knew moſt company would be with her, to avoid a thouſand bitter reproaches, that I was confident ſhe durſt not make me before Witneſſes.

I went then at night to her Apartment, and ask'd a Nun I met (who was ſent without doubt for that purpoſe) if I could not have the honour to ſee the Abbeſs? She ſaid, No, for ſhe was not very well; but not taking that for an excuſe, ſhe whiſper'd me in the ear, that this Order was expreſly for me, and ſhe counſell'd me as a friend to retire. I confeſs that this proceeding ſurprized me not ſo much as it would have done, if I had not been prepared for an ill reception; 'tis true however, that I reſented this refuſal with ſome deſpight, and ſhould not have been conſol'd for it, but by the means it gave me of acquitting my ſelf another way, of the reſpect I owed her: 'Twas, in fine, by writing that I reſolved to bid her adieu, as you ſhall ſee by this Letter.

I Know not, Madam, if it is in earneſt that you are ſick, that I could not ſee you; or whether you are weary of ſeeing me here. The one or the other give me equal pain, and for fear of knowing too much, I inform not my ſelf of that whereof I am glad to be ignorant; and leſt I be more unhappy than I am, I deſign not to preſs you further to declare it to me, but to depart hence to morrow. If you were viſible I ſhould be glad to take leave of you in form: Suffer, if you pleaſe, that I make uſe of the only means that is left for me to bid you Adieu. I kiſs your Hands moſt humbly.

This Letter, as you ſee, was not very gallant, nor well made; and I muſt ſee her (to ſpeak truth) when I ſaid any thing of tenderneſs. She received the Letter, but made me no anſwer.

Egidia, who ſaw I would certainly leave her, and that ſhe muſt be expos'd to all the tempeſt, pray'd me that before I went, I would, at leaſt, make ſome ſort of peace with the Abbeſs, and not give the Nuns occaſion of diſcourſe by ſuch an abrupt departure. She added moreover, that her Siſter would infallibly believe that 'twas ſhe had made me haſten my going away, and that ſhe'd be glad of this pretence to turn all her reſentments upon her: For my part, who feared not death more than the thoughts of this interview, which repreſented to me all the reproaches ſhe'd make me, and to which I could make no reply; I could not tell how to reſolve to ſee her. Egidia, who ſaw my fear and unwillingneſs, graciouſly conſented at laſt that I ſhould depart, without taking my leave of her any other way than as I had done; but to abſent my ſelf but for ſome days, expecting till the Spirit of the Abbeſs was a little ſweetned, and that I ſhould return if it were neceſſary, at the leaſt notice ſhe ſhould ſend me. I put all things in readineſs to go away next morning, to ſee one of my friends in the Neighbourhood; and as I was juſt going a Horſeback, a Footboy brought me a Note, wherein I read theſe words.

DAr'ſt thou depart without ſeeing me, thou moſt baſe and ingrateful'ſt of all men! But go, for 'twould be too great a favour to ſuffer thy Sight after thy Treaſons: Yet take thy choice, that I may ſee how far thy black Ingratitude will carry thee; and if thou canſt even forget that thou oweſt me at leaſt this civility in leaving my Houſe.

Never was man ſo aſtoniſhed as I was, after the reading of this Letter: I ſaw well that whatever it coſt me I muſt ſee her, and only ask'd the Boy where his Lady was, who telling me ſhe was alone in her Chamber, I went thither; but 'twas as a Criminal that preſented himſelf before his Judge.

I found the Abbeſs ſo changed, and ſo ſad, that ſhe would have touch'd the heart of a Barbarian. I know not what I did then, but 'tis certain I was not my ſelf, and that the confuſion her ſight put me into, cannot be expreſt. She look'd upon me ſome moments without ſpeaking to me, afterwards ſaid ſhe to me, What come you here for? I thought you had been gone already. I did not believe, Madam, (anſwered I) that I ought to do ſo, when I might have the honour to ſee you before I went. I come to take my leave of you, and at the ſame time, to beg the favour to know wherein I have offended you. Wherein you have offended me! (ſaid ſhe ſighing) Ah! Traytor, you know it but too well: Well, Madam, (ſaid I to her) ſince you'l have me know it, tell me what I muſt ſuffer for my crime: If Death, be aſſured my Life depends upon what you pleaſe to ordain. Death! (replyed ſhe again) alas! you have but too well deſerved it, and that is my greateſt trouble. What do you expect then (replyed I in a paſſion) if there wants but a Sword to give it me, take mine. In ſaying ſo, I preſented it ready drawn to her, and opened my Breſt for her to pierce it; but ſhe only turned her head away, and ſaid with a louder voice, Cruel! thou know'ſt ill my heart, if thou believeſt I can be revenged of thee that way: I wiſh only that my Life were dear enough to thee, that I might puniſh thee by taking away that; but I ſhould not have the ſatisfaction to ſee thee breathe one ſigh at my death. As ſhe ſpoke theſe words, abundance of Tears covered her Face, and Sobs took away from her the uſe of her Speech, inſomuch that my heart was torn with pity. I knew not what to ſay, fearing ſhe'd take any thing I ſaid to her for new infidelities; but as it is no hard matter to pacifie a Perſon that loves, and that would be loved, I behaved my ſelf ſo well, that by degrees I vanquiſhed her anger, and left her not till I ſaw her in a humor to pardon me all things. That which obliged her to it the ſooner, was that ſeeing me reſolved to be gone, ſhe had a deſire to ſtay me, and ſhe thought ſhe could not prevail by treating me rudely. I was not yet ſo indifferent to her, that ſhe could be willing to part with me altogether; and perhaps ſhe did not deſpair (ſo ordinary is it for them in love to flatter themſelves) to carry me at laſt from her Siſter: She did not know that I deſigned to abſent my ſelf but three or four days, but believed that I intended not to return any more; and I made her to have an obligation to me for it. I prayed her, at leaſt, that ſhe would ſuffer me to to make a little Journy thereabouts, to which ſhe conſented the more willingly, that none might take notice, and cenſure my changing of my reſolution, and how ſoon ſhe was come to her ſelf. She was glad to obſerve ſome circumſtances, that her weakneſs might not appear, and that it might be believed that ſhe recovered by time. Above all, ſhe exacted of me that I ſhould not ſpeak to her Siſter of our reconcilement, and that I ſhould not ſo much as ſee her at parting; if I would not make her repent of her great indulgence to me. I promiſed her I would not, and though Egidia ſent to deſire me to come to ſpeak with her; I prayed her, by one of her friends, to diſpence with me, for reaſons I would write to her, which I was ſure would ſatisfie her. To ſay truth, I owed thus much, at leaſt, to a Perſon that I had ſo great obligations to, and that had ſo much reaſon to complain of me.

I went away then to one of my Friends houſes, from whence I writ ſeveral Letters to theſe Ladies, and received as many from them. In the laſt I received from the Abbeſs, ſhe deſired me to come the day after the receipt of it, to the ſame place where I laſt ſaw her; and very ſecretly, eſpecially not to let her Siſter know any thing of it: That ſhe would be there at Nine a Clock at Night, and expect me till Eleven. I ſaw well enough, by this Letter, that the Abbeſs was calm'd: I believed I could not handſomly balk the aſſignation; but by apology of Love, I thought fit to advertize her Siſter of it, that ſhe might not complain of me, if ſhe came to know it, as ſhe did the other aſſignation. I anſwered the Abbeſs, that I would not fail to wait on her at Nine a Clock, and this Letter I ſent to her Siſter.

IF you were in my place, you would without doubt do what I am going to do this day, but I aſſure you, 'tis with all the regret in the world. I received a Letter yeſterday from your Siſter, wherein ſhe deſires me to meet her at Nine a Clock in the Evening in the Garden, and forbids me above all things to let you know any thing of it. I believe it will not diſpleaſe you that I obey her, and that you would counſel me to it your ſelf if you were here: Fear not any thing, my Fidelity is proof againſt all her charms; for I am never more yours, than when I am with her. Adieu.

I gave to the Abbeſs's Boy my anſwer to her, and ſent this by a Servant of mine to Egidia, but a little before I went away my ſelf, that it might be dark when he came to the Abby, to deliver it more ſecurely. He was there at the hour I deſired, and got into the Parlour without any bodies taking notice of him. When he was there, he heard ſome body go, but the Night hindered him from knowing who it was: He ask'd at a venture, if they would do him the favour to call Madam N—You muſt know this was the Abbeſs, who was walking in the Parlour, and expecting with extreme impatience, the hour of our meeting. She knew at firſt my Mans voice, and ſaid, if he would have any thing with that Lady, 'twas ſhe. Theſe two Ladies voices were ſo like, that ſometimes their moſt familiar friends were deceiv'd. My Man, that knew not the danger of a miſtake, and believed that it was ſhe he ask'd for, gave the Letter without delay into her hands, and believed he had acquitted himſelf very well of the Commiſſion I had given him. The Abbeſs, after ſhe had taken the Letter, diſpatcht my Man, and told him it required no Anſwer. You may eaſily gueſs at her impatience, to ſee what I had writ to her Siſter; but it would be difficult to repreſent her trouble after ſhe had ſatisfied her curioſity. She was not naturally very wicked, and if jealouſie had not been in it, ſhe would, perhaps, have contented her ſelf with reproaches: But this paſſion does not uſually reſt in ſuch weak revenge; it always carries its deſigns to extremity, a love offended is the moſt terrible of all furies. The Abbeſs went immediately into her Siſters Chamber, where ſhe found her alone: Confeſs after all, my Siſter, (ſaid the Abbeſs to her, after having ſpoke indifferently enough of me before) that we are both deceived in the advantagious thoughts we have for this Gentleman, who has paid with Treaſons all that goodneſs we have ſhow'd him. For my part (added ſhe) I am now ſufficiently diſabus'd, and it is true that I am partly obliged to you for it, and that without ſeeing the Letters in your Cabinet, I ſhould have been yet in a ſtrange error. If you pleaſe, I'll, in exchange, do you the ſame ſervice: But, my poor Siſter, you are ſo prepoſſeſt to his advantage, that whatever one ſhall ſay to you, you will not believe that any thing is ſo true, as what he has told you. What do you mean (anſwered Egidia coldly) I ſee not any thing that Monſieur does, that I can blame him for, nor but what diſcovers he has much reſpect for me; and till I have cauſe for the contrary, I am reaſonable enough not to change the Sentiments I have for him. But if one makes you ſee (ſaid the Abbeſs) that you deceive your ſelf in thoſe Sentiments, that he betrays you, and is the baſeſt of all men, What would you then ſay? Perhaps (replyed Egidia) I ſhould not be ſo acknowledging, as ſuch a Service might merit: For, not to lye, though commonly one takes no pleaſure in being deceived, yet in this I muſt confeſs my weakneſs, that I love to be in an error; an evil is not ſo till one knows it. How you are to be pitied, (replyed the Abbeſs again) and yet you deſerve not to be diſabus'd; but you are my Siſter, and againſt your will I muſt pity you. Know then, that this honeſt Man, this faithful Friend, and what elſe you are pleaſed to call him, begg'd of me by a Note yeſterday, to have an interview with him in the Garden this Evening; and conjured me, as much as he cou'd, that it might be ſecret, and eſpecially that you knew nothing of it. If you will not believe me, (continued ſhe, ſeeing ſhe was troubled, and had changed colour 'twice or thrice) you may but come along with me to believe your own eyes. Whatever conſtancy of Spirit this amiable Lady had, ſhe was ſhaken by this diſcourſe: The infidelity was manifeſt, and ſhe could not doubt of it, when her Rival aſſured her ſo poſitively of the thing, and offered to bring her to the rendezvouz, to be witneſs of it her ſelf. She agreed to the propoſal, gave her Arms to poniard her ſelf, and would not defer a moment to ſee her death, ſince the hour of it was come. 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉

THE CONTINUATION Of this HISTORY: Told by a Lady of Company.

I Cannot tell whether Monſieur Le Chevalier's account be all true, becauſe he was acquainted with theſe Ladies a year before I came to the Convent; but this I can ſay, that it bears good report with what I have heard: But I will warrant what I am going to tell you, for a very faithful relation of all that paſſed in my time.

I was very well received in this Abby, which ſome croſs affairs obliged me to make uſe of for a retreat: 'Twas near a Month when I came there, ſince Monſieur Le Chevalier had been abſent. I heard him ſpoke of ſometimes as a very gallant man, for whom the Abbeſs had a great eſteem, and from whom ſhe received Letters often: I perceived quickly that this eſteem had ſomething in it very tender, and that there was ſomething in this friendſhip, above what we ordinarily ſee in that paſſion. The Abbeſs, who had much goodneſs and confidence in me, ſaid to me a thouſand advantagious things of him: She put him above all men, and ſhe could have wiſh'd that I had not only commended him to her, but that I judg'd it reaſonable in her. As long as things ſeemed not to me to go far, I appeared very complaiſant; but when I came to know that theſe importments were more of Love than Friendſhip, that it excited jealouſie between the two Siſters, that it cauſed Tears, Sighs, and Langueors, I could not forbear ſpeaking my thoughts of it freely to the Abbeſs, and to repreſent to her, that an ingagement of this nature would do her an injury one day, and that an amorous affair ought not to enter into a Religious Houſe. She, in appearance, took pleaſure in my freedom, but indeed it begot in her coldneſs to me: She would have been glad of a little more complaiſance in my friendſhip, and her pain being without remedy, could have wiſh'd I would have help'd her to ſupport it. This was the cauſe that I had leſs converſe with her, and ſeldom ſaw her but as my duty, that I might not break altogether with a Perſon that commanded where I was, and to whom I had many obligations. Her Siſter manag'd her ſelf a little better, and though ſhe had not leſs eſteem and tenderneſs for Monſieur, ſhe acted nevertheleſs, before the world as if ſhe were indifferent; for ſhe had much more wit than her Siſter, though not ſo much beauty.

I will begin my recital, if the company pleaſe, where Monſieur left yeſterday; all that he has yet ſaid, being nothing in compariſon of what I have to tell you.

Into what anger and tranſports fell the fair Abbeſs, when ſhe ſaw the Treaſon of her Lover: The leaſt thing her paſſion ſuggeſted to her, was to be revenged of the Traytor, and to make him be kill'd.

A Maid that ſhe moſt confided in, and who was too young to take the liberty of adviſing her, came every night before ſhe went to Bed, to recount to me part of theſe follies, with which, in truth, I could but divert my ſelf.

The Abbeſs took then (as Monſieur has told you) her Siſter with her to this aſſignation, where he failed not to be at the hour appointed: His ſurpriſe was great, as you will imagine, to ſee the two Siſters together, after what the Abbeſs had writ to him, that none ſhould know of this enterview, eſpecially her Siſter: He remembred moreover, what he had writ to her, and the requeſt he made her in his Letter, that ſhe ſhould not be troubled at this aſſignation. He knew not, in fine, what to believe, and of a thouſand thoughts which paſſed through his Mind, none came near the right, ſo little likelihood there was that ſuch a thing ſhould happen. In the midſt of thoſe cruel pains that Spite and Jealouſie made the Abbeſs ſuffer, ſhe taſted an extreme joy to ſee the trouble that Monſieur was in; but her Siſter had nothing to allay her grief, and uſed the greateſt violence to her ſelf imaginable, to forbear reproaching him. She had not patience to ſtay long there, but went from them, after ſhe had view'd him from head to foot, with an air of Scorn and Indignation, without ſaying a word to him. This poor Lover, who began to recover of his firſt ſurprize, when he ſaw how ſhe look'd upon, and avoided him, fell into a ſecond much more cruel. I know not (ſaid he, ſpeaking to the Abbeſs) what I have done to your Siſter, that my preſence drives her hence. It is (anſwered the Abbeſs coldly) becauſe your return here was not expected ſo ſoon, where you have but little buſineſs. Ah! if it be as you ſay, Madam, (replyed Monſieur) I ſwear to you I will not continue here long, for I hate above all things to be troubleſom to people: But yet, Madam (added he, ſuddenly) you muſt not take it ill, if I go and know of your Siſter, if this be the reaſon that ſhe treats me thus; after that I ſhall ſtay no longer with you, than is neceſſary to bid you adieu. In ſaying this, he run after the fair afflicted, whom he overtook juſt as ſhe was going into the Convent. What's the matter with you, Madam, (ſaid he to her, almoſt out of breath) that you fly from me? And why did I find you in a place where I ought not to ſee you? Say rather, thou moſt perfidious, (anſwered ſhe) that I ought not to ſee thee there: But at laſt thy Treaſons are diſcovered, and thou ſhalt not deceive me any longer, for I will not ſee thee again all my life. After theſe words, ſhe went into the Convent, ſhut the door upon her, and left Monſieur in the moſt deplorable condition that a man could be reduced to: He can tell you that he was a hundred times going to kill himſelf, and that he would have made a thouſand reproaches to this ungrateful, if ſhe could have heard them. His Conſcience accus'd him not of any infidelity, he believed he had not done any thing contrary to his duty in this Aſſignation, ſince he had given her notice of it, and he knew well that in relation to this fair one, he deſerved not the name of perfidious. So ſevere a treatment made him reſolve to depart without expecting any longer, hoping time would convince his Miſtreſs of the wrong ſhe had done him; or that deſpight and abſence would cure him of his Love. The Abbeſs, who had followed him, and was not deſirous the miſtake ſhould be clear'd, arriv'd as he was in this reſolution: He accoſted her of a faſhion as ſufficiently teſtified his deſpair; and ſcarce looking on her, What you told me, Madam, (ſaid he to her) was more than ever I could have thought, and I am treated here with ſo ſtrange an air, that I am aſtoniſh'd: There's no other way to take, than not to ſtay a moment longer in a place where my preſence is ſo odious. Behold! (anſwered the Abbeſs) how Traytors ought to be recompenc'd for their Treachery? I have not time, Madam, (anſwered Monſieur) to ask you what reaſon you have to give me that name. I muſt depart this inſtant to deliver you from a Man, that is more than troubleſom to you: 'Tis enough, if you'l be pleaſed to remember, that 'twas you that cauſed my coming here at this time: I am come, as I promiſed you, and you, perhaps, brought your Siſter, that you ſo ſtrictly charged me ſhould know nothing of it. Yes, Traytor, (anſwered ſhe, tranſported by her paſſion) and it was in that, that thy baſe heart has failed thee. Speak! Tell me, baſe!—If thou haſt not writ to her, what thou wert deſired to conceal. Monſieur was ſo ſtrangely ſurprized here, that he remained immovable; and believ'd effectually that Egidia (to continue the Name which he gave her in his relation) had made her privy to the Letter he had writ her. So ſoon as he was recover'd a little from the diſorder he was in, I know not well, Madam, (ſaid he to her) what you mean; but if all theſe injurious reproaches are but to drive me from hence, I aſſure you that you give your ſelf this trouble without need, and leſs would ſerve to make me reſolve never to ſee you more. I am juſt going from this Country (continued he, going away) and bid you, Madam, an eternal adieu. The Abbeſs ſtayed him, and told him a little more calmly, that whatſoever reaſon there was to treat him yet worſe, it was not fit he ſhould go away at ſuch a time of Night. Whether there be reaſon or no, (replyed Monſieur briskly) I am ſo little accuſtomed to be thus receiv'd whereever I go, that I ſhall ſupport very impatiently thoſe moments that I am confin'd here. I beg of you, Madam, (purſued he, endeavouring to diſengage himſelf from her) not to ſtrive, out of a formal piece of ceremony, for that which would be troubleſom both to your ſelf and me. But I will not have you go to night (ſaid the Abbeſs to him) and if it be true, that I have yet power enough leſt to oblige you to do any thing for me, you ſhall make me know it in this: I have buſineſs with you, and 'twill be time enough to morrow for you to go. Monſieur prayed her if ſhe had any thing to ſay to him, not to delay it; and that in another occaſion he would be ready to teſtifie the reſpect he had for her, but that he could not ſtay now. We ſhall ſee that, ſaid ſhe, and leaving him, ſhe haſten'd to the Abby, to give order that his Horſes ſhould be ſtopp'd; but thoſe that had it in commiſſion, came a little too late, for he was juſt going, and ſeeing the endeavours that were uſed to hinder him, and that he wanted time to pack up his Baggage, he choſe rather to leave his Servant behind him, and went to lodge that Night a League from the Abby, where he bid him come to him the next morning.

The Abbeſs that but a moment before would not only have been glad never to ſee him, but to have revenged her ſelf upon him with deſtruction, had not now the power to bring her ſelf to conſent to his departure: How weak is anger againſt an object that is uſed to charm us? and how ill can a heart revenge it ſelf of what it loves? when the Lover ſuffers moſt, in the ſufferings of the beloved.

The Abbeſs heard of Monſieurs departure with a ſenſible diſpleaſure, and gave ſevere words to them ſhe had ſent to ſtop him for letting him go. When they told her that his Servant was not gone, ſhe bid him be call'd to her, whom by ſtrength of Preſents, ſhe drew to tell where his Maſter was: She was eas'd of half her pain, when ſhe knew that he lay but a league from her. Her paſſion, which at that time would have made her attempt any thing, put into her head a deſign, which was not pardonable in one of her habit, except we will pardon all things to love. This little God uſes not to inſpire us ſo weakly, as to leave it in our power to conſult reaſon or juſtice; and there is not any that they baulk, who are poſſeſſed with him. The Maid that I have already ſpoke to you of, that was her particular confident, came into her Chamber, and ſeeing her in a profound ſtudy, believed ſhe had committed a fault, and went to excuſe her ſelf for interrupting her. No, no, my dear Companion, (ſaid the Abbeſs to her, for ſo 'twas ſhe called her) you come more luckily than you think, and I have need of you; and I may ſay that 'tis from you alone I can hope aſſiſtance in the pains that I ſuffer. The Maid anſwered with much acknowledgment to the favour that the Abbeſs did her, to conſider her at that rate; and aſſured her with a thouſand proteſtations of her fidelity, and that there was not any thing that ſhe would not undertake to ſerve her. The Abbeſs embrac'd her moſt tenderly, ſigh'd, wept, and touch'd ſo nearly the heart of her dear Confident, that ſhe was impatient to know what ſhe was to do for her; and with tears in her eyes, beſeech'd her to tell her, for what it was that ſhe was afflicted. You are not ignorant of any thing that paſſes in my heart, (ſaid the ſad Lady to her with an Air extremely deplorable) nor with what ingratitude Monſieur Le Chevalier has of late repayed the tenderneſs that I had for him. This Traytor, after all my kindneſſes, has been ſo baſe to go away without my conſent, and even without bidding me Adieu. You ought to ſee, Madam, in that (reply'd the Maid diſcreetly) how unworthy he is of your favours, and that he merits not any longer your eſteem. I am reſolved to do as you ſay (anſwered the Abbeſs) and am ſufficiently diſpos'd to it; but the pain that I ſuffer at preſent, and that I cannot conquer, is but to have the pleaſure to eaſe my full heart with reproaching him with his Treaſons, and that he go not away, perhaps, in the opinion that I am not yet perſwaded of his perfidiouſneſs. I would have the ſatisfaction of making him bluſh for his laſt fault, which I have not yet acquainted thee with. If thou loveſt me (added ſhe with her ſhaming air) thou wilt find ſome way whereby I may ſatisfie this deſire; and, in fine, break off intirely with the moſt ungrateful of all men: Without that, my Child, I cannot promiſe thee to live long in the diſpleaſure and rage I am in, and thou art like to loſe ſuddenly the beſt of thy Friends his Maid, who in intrigues of Love, was not the moſt skilful in the world, and ſaw not yet into the depth of the Abbeſs's deſign; propoſed to her to write a Letter of reproaches to this Traytor; but this ſatisfaction was too weak for a paſſionate Lover: One can never expreſs ones ſelf well by writing (ſaid ſhe) upon a Subject of this nature: To puniſh as we ought, one that is ſo culpable, the Perſon offended muſt, with her own mouth, make all the reproaches he merits, that ſhe may have the advantage of ſeeing his confuſion. Ha! (ſaid the Maid) Well then, Madam, What will you do? Stay to expect his return? The innocence of this Maid almoſt made the Abbeſs laugh. Can we (replyed ſhe) keep anger ſo long againſt one that has once pleas'd us? No, no, if thou wilt believe me (purſued ſhe, with a bluſh that covered all her face) we will not defer our revenge ſo long a time: I have courage enough to execute the deſign, if thou haſt enough to follow me: We will go find out this Traytor that is but a League off, and thou ſhalt be witneſs with what ſcorn I will manage the buſineſs; and if it be poſſible to overwhelm a man with reproaches, Monſieur Le Chevalier ſhall be he. So hardy a propoſal at firſt ſtrangely ſurpriz'd this Maid: She that could ſcarce go in the Night thro' the Monaſtery without ſtarts and fears, could not but think it dangerous and terrible, to expoſe themſelves alone to thoſe troubleſom accidents they might meet with in the road: But the Abbeſs repreſented the enterprize ſo eaſie, and ſo unlikely of any troubleſom rencounter in that little way they had to go, and ſo fair a Night, that at laſt ſhe perſwaded her, and made her love the novelty of the diverſion. The Abbeſs, extremely raviſhed to have gained her dear companion, thought now only where to get Horſes. She would not make uſe of her own, that her going might be the more ſecret, but choſe rather to have recourſe to her Farmer, that lived about a thouſand paces off her; to whom ſhe preſently diſpatch'd her Valet, that had always been very faithful to her, and that ſhe reſolved ſhould wait upon her in this Journy. Her order was to tell the Farmer, that ſhe had need of three Horſes, and that he ſhould not fail to ſend them her that Night. Her Valet departed the ſame moment, whilſt the Ladies went to prepare themſelves to get a Horſeback. The firſt thing the Abbeſs did, was to give out that ſhe was not very well, and would go to Bed; giving leave to all thoſe that waited on her to do the like, and kept only her dear companion with her, as ſhe often uſed to do. So ſoon as they were alone, they began to undreſs themſelves, and to change their holy habits for thoſe 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 of the Country, of which the Abbeſs had very handſom ones: She adorn'd her ſelf with as much care, as if ſhe had been going to ſome publick Aſſembly: She was the laſt dreſs'd, but there could not be any thing more fine and gallant than ſhe: Her Apartment was not far from the Garden, and they could go to it without noiſe, or being ſeen of any, as they did; and took with all ſpeed a way to the back door, where the Valet was to be with their Horſes. One would have ſaid that had ſeen them, that they had been two Amazons, that went to aſſault ſome place, they did ſo encourage one another. When they were come to the door, and the Abbeſs, who had the Key, had open'd it, finding no body there, they began to be ſoon impatient of the Valet's ſtay; but, at laſt, they heard a noiſe of Horſes, which gave them ſome hopes; but we are often deceived in thoſe things which we deſire moſt: As the noiſe increaſed, they began to fear they were in an error, for the Valet that they expected was not to come that way; but the Abbeſs, who had a little more reſolution than her follow-adventurer, that even trembled with fear, endeavoured to re aſſure her, telling her that without doubt it was he, but that he had taken a compaſs not to meet any body by the way, and that this was the occaſion of his ſtaying ſo long; bidding her go two or three ſteps, to ſee if ſhe were not in the right: This poor Maid, that every thing terrified had not the courage to do as the Abbeſs commanded her; and beſeech'd her moſt humbly, not to put her valour to this tryal; and that ſhe could not leave her a ſtep without dying, for the ſhake of every leaf put her into a mortal fright. The Abbeſs could not forbear laughing at her cowardice, and bid her not to fear any thing, for ſhe would go along with her. Our two valorous Adventurers, with prodigious courage, went ſome paces to meet thoſe that came; but they had no ſooner diſcovered that they were two men that rid apace towards them, but they run away without ſo much as remembring to ſhut the Garden door after them, never ſtopping till they arrived at laſt near the Monaſtery, but ſo out of breath, that they could ſcarcely ſpeak: Their courage return'd a little when they ſaw themſelves at home, and panting with their hands on their ſides, they began to laugh at their ill grounded fear of two Men that ſought only their way. After a little reaſoning upon the caſe, they took heart and returned the ſecond time to the door, where they found two Horſes tyed to a Tree, without any body by them. The Abbeſs, when ſhe had look'd well on both ſides her, without diſcovering any body, was in ſome pain to divine, why theſe Horſes ſhould be here without her Valet; but ſhe believed that he was not gone far, and that they muſt wait for him, concluding (as it is eaſie to make any concluſion to our own advantage) that theſe muſt of neceſſity be her Farmers Horſes; and this was not wholly unlikely, for who elſe could be imagined to leave two Horſes ſo: But the Valet came not, and the Abbeſs dyed with impatience at it; time preſſed her ſo much, that ſhe was afraid there was not Night enough left to execute her deſign. This was a great torment to her: She would have ſworn a thouſand times (but that Abbeſſes uſe not to ſwear) that theſe were her Farmers Horſes, that ſhe knew them, and that certainly her Valet was hindred with getting another Horſe. 'Tis true, this might be, but 'twas poſſible alſo theſe might be the Horſes of the two men they ſaw; but on that point ſhe would not reaſon, for ordinarily we love not to be convinced of what we do not deſire; and we often chuſe to be deceived with a falſe ſhew of reaſon, rather than to be certain of a truth that does not agree with us.

Our moſt amorous and impatient Abbeſs, ſeeing her Valet did not come, told her faithful Companion, that they could not ſtay any longer for him, and that he was not ſo neceſſary to them, but that they might go without him, and he might come after if he would. She conſented to all that ſhe pleaſed, and our two Adventurers mounted without an Eſquire, and in leſs than an hour arrived, without any wicked adventure, at Monſieur Le Chevalier's Inn. The Abbeſs knock'd at the door, and inquired for a Gentleman that lodged there: They told her that indeed ſuch a one came there that night, but that he went away again about an hour after, with a Valet that brought him a Letter. She queſtion'd again the Maſter of the Houſe what way they had taken, what Livery the Valet was in, if the Gentleman was to return quickly, if he had eat, till in fine, ſhe came to queſtion him, if he had appeared ſad or joyful. But the Hoſt knew not what to ſay to her, all that he knew was, that he was not likely to return that Night, and that he had not left any Orders with them. Never any one was ſo afflicted as the poor Abbeſs then was: A thouſand thoughts oppreſt her at once, of which there was not one that overwhelm'd her not with trouble: What numbers of inquietudes, what cruel ſuſpicions, well or ill grounded, what rage, what deſpair, to have promis'd her ſelf ſo much ſatisfaction in coming, after all the charming Chimera's that ſhe had fram'd in her Mind, to return more deſolate than ever? Her companion, who ſuffered extremely to ſee her ſo ſtrangely afflicted, would have been glad ſhe could have comforted her. Why do you torment your ſelf, Madam, (ſaid ſhe to her) 'tis true, we have loſt our labour, but who knows whether that is not better for us, than if we had ſucceeded in our deſign, and have found Monſieur Le Chevalier: You know him, Madam, and that he is not the diſcreeteſt Perſon in the world; perhaps this viſit might have been talk'd of, we are at leaſt aſſured, that we have taken a Frolick that none knows of. That none knows of, (replied this diſtracted Lover?) alas! ſeeſt thou not that my Siſter knew our deſign, and that 'twas ſhe without doubt that ſent this Valet, to advertize him of what we intended, and to oblige him to avoid me? But how is it poſſible (anſwered her companion) that this ſhould be as you ſay? If Monſieur has been ſo long gone from this place as the Hoſt tells us, you had then ſcarce framed the deſign of coming hither. But what cauſe (replyed the Abbeſs) wilt thou then find for his ſudden departure? In fine, whatever her Companion ſaid to her, and whatever arguments her wit could frame to perſwade her, ſhe always ended with ſaying her Siſter had done the buſineſs, and that nothing could have oblig'd him to leave his Lodging at that hour, but ſhe. This thought furiouſly tormented her, her jealouſie was augmented by it, and ſhe was aſſaulted with ſo many pains at once, that ſhe ſaw on all ſides her nothing but deſpair. How far different was it with her now, to what it was ſome moments before; when ſhe was fill'd with the joyful expectation of ſeeing her dear Chevalier? Whatever her Companion ſaid to her, to divert her muſings, ſhe anſwered her only with ſighs.

Being at length got home again, they were a little troubled how to diſpoſe of their Horſes; but at laſt, they judg'd it the ſafeſt and eaſieſt way to draw them into the Garden, and tye them to a Tree till it was day, that they might ſend them back to the Farmer: After that, they had no more to do, than to go ſtrait to the Convent; but they were ſcarce come to the middle of the Garden, when they fancied that they heard people talk: The Maid, who was three or four paces before the Abbeſs, and had not her Spirit ſo pre-occupyed, was the firſt that perceived it, and turning to her all of a ſudden, extremely ſurprized, told her that, aſſuredly, there was ſome body in the Garden. The Abbeſs hearkned very attentively, and found that ſhe was not deceived: 'Twas now that all her pains were ſuſpended, and that ſhe labour'd not under any but curioſity. Whatever cauſe we have of trouble, if we meet with any thing that ſurprizes, it diverts our pains for the time, and they are, as it were, aſleep in us. All her ſuſpicion awak'd at this noiſe, ſhe knew that only ſhe and her Siſter had a Key from the Convent to the Garden; and this reaſon alone was ſufficient to make her believe, that 'twas certainly ſhe and Monſieur Le Chevalier, that entertained an amorous converſation; at leaſt, ſhe was reſolved to be ſatisfied. Jealouſie ſerves inſtead of courage to women, and Love makes them hazard every thing. This Lady, that perhaps upon another occaſion, would have been terrified with leſs cauſe, now feared not to go forward, to diſcover if her Suſpicions were true or no, bidding the Maid (who trembled with fear) to follow her ſoftly. They went ſo lightly as they could, under the covert of a Hedg, (for the Night was very clear, and they might be ſeen at a diſtance) towards a thick Arbor from whence they were a little troubled how to diſpoſe of their Horſes; but at laſt, they judg'd it the ſafeſt and eaſieſt way to draw them into the Garden, and tye them to a Tree till it was day, that they might ſend them back to the Farmer: After that, they had no more to do, than to go ſtrait to the Convent; but they were ſcarce come to the middle of the Garden, when they fancied that they heard people talk: The Maid, who was three or four paces before the Abbeſs, and had not her Spirit ſo pre-occupyed, was the firſt that perceived it, and turning to her all of a ſudden, extremely ſurprized, told her that, aſſuredly, there was ſome body in the Garden. The Abbeſs hearkned very attentively, and found that ſhe was not deceived: 'Twas now that all her pains were ſuſpended, and that ſhe labour'd not under any but curioſity. Whatever cauſe we have of trouble, if we meet with any thing that ſurprizes, it diverts our pains for the time, and they are, as it were, aſleep in us. All her ſuſpicion awak'd at this noiſe, ſhe knew that only ſhe and her Siſter had a Key from the Convent to the Garden; and this reaſon alone was ſufficient to make her believe, that 'twas certainly ſhe and Monſieur Le Chevalier, that entertained an amorous converſation; at leaſt, ſhe was reſolved to be ſatisfied. Jealouſie ſerves inſtead of courage to women, and Love makes them hazard every thing. This Lady, that perhaps upon another occaſion would have been terrified with leſs cauſe, now feared not to go forward, to diſcover if her Suſpicions were true or no, bidding the Maid (who trembled with fear) to follow her ſoftly. They went ſo lightly as they could, under the covert of a Hedg, (for the Night was very clear, and they might be ſeen at a diſtance) towards a thick Arbor from whence they heard the voice. The Abbeſs ſoon knew Monſieur Le Chevalier's, but could not underſtand diſtinctly what he ſaid; therefore advancing a little forward, ſhe heard her Siſter ſpeak: But do not you conſider, (ſaid ſhe) to what you expoſe me? and how you hazard your ſelf? for without ſpeaking of what has happen'd to ſo many, other unhappy Maids that have abandon'd themſelves on the Faith of Men, whereof there have been but too many deceiv'd; but granting you to have more honeſty and honour than all the World beſides, think what diſcourſe my flight will occaſion; the furious ſearch my Parents will make for us, and into what ſtrange miſery I ſhould caſt you, if you ſhould fall into their hands: My God! (continued ſhe) once again attempt not any thing ſo dangerous! Leave me rather to dye here with grief, than precipitate our ſelves to ſo hazardous an enterprize. You will have me then (anſwered the other, that the Abbeſs knew at firſt to be Monſieur Le Chevalier) to expoſe you to all the ills that Jealouſie can contrive againſt you; to all the affronts and injuries that you may receive from your furious Siſter, and a hundred other things that makes me tremble for you: You know that I have no longer the liberty to ſee you here, and that it is forbidden me; and that I cannot for ſhame preſent my ſelf here any more, after the ill treatment that I have received; and it is to ſay that you will have me dye. If you love me, Madam,—If I love you (interrupted ſhe) you know it but too well: If you would not have me doubt of it, (purſued Monſieur Le Chevalier) and that my Love and Aſſiduity have merited that you ſhould do every thing for me as you have told me ſeveral times, give me this demonſtrative proof of it: Let us render our ſelves happy, my charming Queen, ſince 'tis in our power; our flight is eaſie, your Valet and mine are at the Garden door, who attends us with Horſes; all things favour us, and I promiſe you in three hours to put you in a place, where not only none ſhall know where we are, but where there would not be any thing to be fear'd if they ſhould. Monſieur was then ſilent, to ſee what anſwer his dear Egidia would make him. Get you gone, Monſieur, (ſaid ſhe, ſighing) for I'm afraid if you preſs me longer, that you'l obtain of me more than I ought to grant: I beg of you to go, before my weakneſs miſleads me from my duty. Do you your ſelf, if you are more reaſonable than I, as you ought to be, fortifie my heart againſt your ſelf, have pity on my ſinking virtue, and reſt content with the glory that nothing but your ſelf is able to reſiſt you; for I confeſs that I am not aſſured, that I have the power of my ſelf to withſtand you and Love. Adieu, leave me. After theſe words they heard her weep, and Monſieur, Let your ſelf be overcome (ſaid he) My Dear Soul! Let your ſelf be perſwaded by a Love ſo tender and ſo paſſionate: Give up your ſelf to my care and my fidelity, that is too well known to you to doubt of it. There was not any thing he omitted to ſay that might gain her, which tore the heart of the Abbeſs, as it tender'd hers. It is not neceſſary to repreſent the different paſſions of theſe two Ladies: The Love, the Languors, and tender Sighs of the youngeſt, no more than the deſpight, Shame, and Rage of the eldeſt: Who yet had the patience to hearken to the end of a diſcourſe, as cruel for her as it was charming for her Siſter. She ſaw her wholly diſpos'd to do as Monſieur Le Chevalier would have her, and going to prepare her ſelf to go away with him, for ſhe was to fit her ſelf with a habit more ſuitable the liberty of the Country, than that ſhe wore; and went to her Chamber to change it. The Abbeſs let her paſs, and ſtirr'd not from the place where ſhe was of ſome time after, that (her thoughts labouring of a deſign) ſhe took a conſiderable compaſs, to come, with her Mask on her Face, into the Arbor where Monſieur Le Chevalier was; who (as ſhe would have it) taking her for her Siſter, embraced her with all tenderneſs. How charming are you, Madam, (ſaid the tranſported Lover) to make me attend ſo little in this extreme impatience I had to ſee you return! Come, let us go, ſince nothing oppoſes our deſign, and ſerve our ſelves of Fortune, now ſhe is for us. After theſe words, he led the way, becauſe they went in a path that but one could walk in. It is eaſie to imagine the little pleaſure, or rather the deſpair, wherewith the Abbeſs receiv'd ſo much ſweetneſs that was not deſign'd for her; and what violence ſhe uſed to reſtrain her anger, this being not a time to let it appear, nor make her ſelf known. You ought not to wonder at Monſieurs miſtake, conſidering 'twas Night, and that there was little difference in the ſtature of theſe two Ladies, beſides a thouſand other things which help'd to deceive him.

As this was not a proper place to entertain her in, he ſaid but little to her, and thought only of ſecuring her and himſelf where he had deſign'd; and to what he did ſay ſhe anſwer'd him not a word, whereof he took no notice, having his mind ſo full of his enterprize. They went in this manner quite to the Garden door, where Monſieur was not a little ſurpriz'd to find it ſhut; but ſhe quickly eas'd him of his pain, and took the key that ſhe had about her and opened it. By what means, or rather by what happineſs, (ſaid he then to her, knowing that none but the Abbeſs kept that Key) came you by this Key? She anſwer'd him no more than before, at which he ſtayed not but haſtned to get a Horſeback; but his Horſes were not there, and his Valet, who had been looking them, told him, with a very ſad tone, that he did not know what was become of them, and that he had been more than two hours in purſuit of them to no purpoſe; that he was come to tell him of it, and going again to ſeek them, for he knew they could not be loſt, and that no body went that way. I cou'd never learn the Abbeſs's deſign, whether what ſhe did was only ſubtilly to prevent this enterprize, or whether ſhe would in earneſt have taken the place of her Siſter; but this I can tell you, that as ſoon as ſhe heard what the Valet ſaid of the Horſes, ſhe return'd into the Garden, and ſhut the door upon her. Never was man more ſurpriz'd than this Lover, ſcarce could he believe what he ſaw, that his Miſtreſs ſhould leave him in ſuch a manner, and what was more ſtrange to him, the ſhutting the door after her. I believe that none but himſelf can deſcribe his thoughts in ſo cruel an adventure. He knock'd five or ſix times at the door! call'd his Miſtreſs! complained of Love and Deſtiny! Curſt! Swore! threatned to kill his Valet! and, in ſhort, there was no extravagancy that his rage made him not to commit. In the mean time, the Abbeſs return'd towards her companion full of joy, for what ſhe had done, and to hear her trayterous Le Chevalier in that paſſion. She was not yet come to the Arbor, that I ſpoke of, when ſhe heard the noiſe of one coming that way, and who, in all likelihood, muſt be her Siſter, whom with a ſlow pace, ſhe went to meet. This poor Lady, that had not all the courage in the world, and who, beſides the fear ſhe was in, and that attends all ſuch actions, walk'd muſing upon a thouſand obſtacles and accidents that ſhe might meet with in the way. She no ſooner caſt her eyes upon the Abbeſs, than ſhe believed ſhe was a Spirit, and trembling with fear, ſhe made a dreadful out-cry; and flew with all her might back to the Convent. The Abbeſs acquitted her ſelf very agreeably of theſe adventures, and believed ſhe was in part revenged of the diſpleaſures her Siſter had cauſed her; whom ſhe let flee, and that while return'd to ſeek her companion, who expected her with extreme impatience, being furiouſly terrified to be alone in the midſt of the Garden, expoſed to all the noiſes ſhe heard, and even aſſaſſinated with fear: She related to her all that ſhe had done ſince ſhe left her, how ſhe had deceiv'd Monſieur Le Chevalier, and terrified her Siſter; wherewith they were very merry, and laugh'd heartily. They ſtayed a little, to ſee if ſhe would return, but 'twas in vain; for ſhe, poor Lady, was ſo diſmay'd, that ſhe almoſt dyed with the fright; and was forc'd by it, to keep her Bed a long time. The Abbeſs and her companion retir'd at laſt, and took care that none ſhould go out of the Convent, having double lock'd the door of it.

This is (ſaid Madam d' Eyrac, in concluding her Story) all the particulars that I know of theſe Ladies adventures with Monſieur Le Chevalier. He can tell you now what I have not been inform'd of: I will only add, that 'twas no ſooner day, than the Abbeſs ſent for her Valet, and ask'd him what was become of him the Night paſt, and why he had not been at the door ſhe appointed him? The Fellow told her, that he had been with the Farmer, and his Horſes were not at home, and that at his return he ſaw two Gentlemen going into the Garden, whom he durſt not come near, for fear of being known; and that returning half an hour after, he found the door ſhut. The relation of this fellow finiſh'd the diſcovery, and the Abbeſs queſtion'd no longer, but they were Monſieur Le Chevalier's Horſes that ſhe had made uſe of. She gave order to her Valet, to turn them out of the Garden, but ſo as they might be found.

'Tis from you (added Madam d' Eyrac, turning to Monſieur Le Chevalier) that we muſt expect the reſt: All the company made him the ſame requeſt, ſo that he could not deny them. Madam d' Eyrac (purſued he) has told you ſo much, that I have no more to do than to cloſe up the Story. You muſt know then, that after my ill treatment in the Garden by Egidia and the Abbeſs, by whoſe appointment I came there, I prepared all things for my departure, but firſt I writ this Letter to Egidia.

I Know not, Madam, what I have done to be ſo cruelly treated as I have been. The Abbeſs deſired to have in interview with me, and though ſhe had expreſly commanded me to conceal it from you, I forbore not to give you an account of it by a Letter, which I ſent by my Valet. Is this to betray you? I ſee well you deſign my death! Ah! Well, Madam, you ſhall be ſatisfied, but ſhall not have the pleaſure to ſee it, for I ſtay not here a moment; but you ſhall quickly hear the ſucceſs of your unjuſt proceedings, and if the death of the faithful'ſt of Lovers is capable of touching ſuch a heart as yours, I can promiſe my ſelf that you will, in a little time, repent of having given it me. Adieu, too cruel fair and Adieu for ever.

As I finiſh'd my Letter, I ſaw people come from the Abbeſs, who, after having in vain intreated me to ſtay that night, would have hinder'd in good earneſt my going away; but ſeeing me upon the point of being angry, they oppoſed me no longer: But my Valet was ſomewhat long, and I was afraid the Abbeſs would come her ſelf, to try once again her power over me, which conſtrained me to depart, and leave him with my baggage. I gave him my Letter to Egidia, with order to deliver it into her own hands, and bring me an Anſwer if ſhe'd write one; and thus I forſook a place, that for a years time, was the dear Scene of all my pleaſures, loſt, as I may ſay, with ſadneſs, and overwhelmed with different pains, without coming to my ſelf, or recovering my Sences in all the way between the Abby and my Lodging. It may eaſily be gueſs'd, that when I came there, I deſired neither to eat nor ſleep: True Lovers, in the eſtate I was reduc'd unto, feaſt only upon Tears, and Sleep avoids them as a mortal enemy. 'Twas in the heat of theſe cruel moments, that one came to tell me there was a Valet below would ſpeak with me: I bid that they ſhould bring him into my chamber, and ſaw that 'twas one that belong'd to my dear Egidia. I embraced him kindly, who, after he had complemented me from his Miſtreſs, gave me a Letter, wherein I found theſe words.

YOu do not think I wiſh your death; you know me too well, and are ſufficiently perſwaded that if you had done me all the injuries in the world, you have but a word to ſay to make me believe you have not wrong'd me. I know not what Letter you mean, for 'tis above three days ſince I had any from you: Come and tell me what it is, for I ſhall dye with diſpleaſure if you leave me thus, with the fear that I have done you wrong. I hear that my Siſter could not prevail with you to ſtay with us this evening; if you love me better than you do her, will you not do ſomething more at my requeſt? Return, I conjure you, I am of a humour to pardon you all things, and if you would have me believe that you love me, you will give me this proof of it; for I ſhall not ſleep till I ſee you, and will expect you two hours after midnight, in the Great Arbor in the Garden, and I will judge of the force of your Love, by the little time you make me ſtay for you. Adieu.

So ſoon as I had read this Letter, I got a Horſeback, and arrived in a very ſhort time under the Walls of the Garden, where I knew there was a place that I could get over with eaſe: But having found the door open, I profited my ſelf of the occaſion, which, I confeſs, ſurpriz'd me at firſt, but upon ſecond thoughts I imagin'd, that it happened thro' the contrivance of Egidia. I bid her Valet tye our Horſes to the foot of a Tree, and go to advertize my Servant to prepare himſelf to come away with me in an hours time. After I had given this order, I went, or rather flew to the Arbor, where I was to find my dear Egidia. 'Twas then that the Abbeſs, returning to the Garden door, found my Horſes that ſhe took for her Farmers, and made uſe of them to make me that extraordinary viſit.

But not to dwell upon a little Story, that begins already to ſeem tedious, I will only tell you, that Egidia received me in the Arbor with a joy, that made me forget all the ill uſage wherewith ſhe had ſo lately treated me. We let ſome time paſs in tranſports and tenderneſs, and the faireſt day in the world was never ſo agreeable to me, as that charming Night. When I ſpoke to her of the Letter I had writ to her, and that ſhe aſſured me that ſhe never received it; we concluded at firſt that 'twas fall'n into the Abbeſs's hands; and that my Valet had either been guilty of a miſtake, or betrayed me. In fine, after much juſtification on both ſides; after, I ſay, many new amities, ſighs, and languors, that Lovers abound with in a happy reconciliation, I propoſed to her to ſteal her away, as you have heard from Madam d' Eyrac; and preſs'd her with ſo much earneſtneſs, that in the end, ſhe conſented, and went to prepare her ſelf to follow me I confeſs her quick return a little ſurpriz'd me, but who would then have thought of Madam the Abbeſs? I ſaw her maſqu'd, in the habit of the Country, that ſhe did not ſcruple to go with me; and, in a word, if my Horſes had been ready, I do not doubt but I ſhould have carried her away inſtead of her Siſter.

I will not inlarge, by telling you with what aſtoniſhment I was ſeiz'd to ſee her go back again into the Garden, and ſhut the door after her: At firſt I believed that ſhe only deſign'd to make ſport with me, but as the rallery laſted a little too long for people that had no time to loſe, and that ſhe did not return; in ſpight of me I concluded this was no longer jeſt. I thought that ſhe had conſented to follow me only to deceive me, and that I had been the moſt abuſed man in the world. 'Twas then that ſhame, deſpight, and diſdain, excited terrible tempeſts in my Soul, which together with the diſpleaſure of not knowing what was become of my Horſes, nor what I ſhould do with my ſelf, put me in ſo furious a paſſion, that I vented a thouſand complaints and reproaches againſt the perfidious Egidia. I conſider'd this as the greateſt affront that a Man could receive; I examin'd every particular, and there was no circumſtance that ſeemed not impoſſible to me. In this humor I took my way to the Village, that being the beſt courſe I could then think of; and went to lodge at my ancient Hoſts, where I paſs'd a much more cruel Night than the firſt time I had been in that Houſe. I called to mind all the cares and ſervices I had rendred to this ingrate; and all the falſe promiſes of amity that ſhe had made me; and being aſtoniſhed not to have found out the lightneſs of her humor, I accuſed my ſelf of ſtupidity and blindneſs, adding to my firſt deſpair, an indignation againſt my ſelf. What extravagant diſcourſes had I with my ſelf that Night! What numbers of unlikely deſigns I framed! In truth, one is liable to many follies when one loves extremely. It was no ſooner day, than I call'd to my Valet for Ink and Paper to write to her, but it was with ſo much trouble and diſorder, that whatever I writ I defaced it as faſt. Nothing pleaſed me, ſometimes I fancied I complain'd too ſweetly, and ſometimes I feared to offend her; ſometimes I reſolved to take leave of her for ever, and a moment after I repented of that reſolution: But at laſt I writ thus to her.

YOu ought, Madam, rather not to have obliged me, than repent of it ſo ſoon; nor to have come to the door with me, to forſake me in ſuch a manner: 'Twas my ill fortune that my Horſes were loſt, you ſaw 'twas not my fault, and you ought rather to have comforted me, than treat me with that cruelty, as to leave me without ſaying a word to me: But above all, why did you ſhut the door? Or why did you flee from me? Did you fear any violence from me? And wherefore did you promiſe me ſo much happineſs, if you did not intend it? I ſee well what I ought to conclude from all this, and that I was deceived to believe you ever lov'd me. The Maſque is off now, and without accuſing you of Ingratitude or Perfidy, I leave you to make your ſelf the reproaches you merit, whilſt I go to to waſte the remainder of my miſerable life, in ſome place more happy for me than this. Adieu.

This Letter was given her by her Valet, who an hour after brought me another from her, telling me withal that ſhe was very ill, which I might eaſily perceive by her writing, that I could ſcarce read; and where I found theſe words.

ALl that you have writ to me terrifies me in ſuch a manner, that I believe I ſhall dye with it: I know not what door you talk of, and all I can ſay is, that I never ſaw you after I parted with you in the Arbor, but met a Spirit as I was coming, the fright whereof will I think kill me: 'Twas certainly the ſame fantaſm that you ſpeak of, and which, without doubt came to you in my ſhape. Behold l how God corrects thoſe that are not wiſe! I have not ſlept ſince, and I always fancy I ſee the Spirit that purſued me. I ſee the hand of Heaven in it that I have ſo long offended, let us profit of its advice, my dear Monſieur, let's endeavour to be wiſe; for my part, I am wholly reſolved to lead a better life, and if you love me you'l do ſo too. We were going to ruine our ſelves, and God would preſerve us, let us render him the thanks we owe him for his goodneſs: See me not of ſome days, I will think a little of my ſalvation, and do invite you to do the ſame, and to look upon me no longer but as one of your friends. Adieu.

I was exceedingly ſurpriz'd with the reading of this Letter; but to tell you the truth, if ſhe had not been very ſick, I ſhould have taken all ſhe ſaid for chimaera's and pretences that ſhe made uſe of to excuſe 〈1 page duplicate〉 〈1 page duplicate〉 her inconſtancy: Though I never gave much faith to ſuch fooliſh ſtories as that of the Fantaſm; yet when I reflected upon what ſhe aſſured me, that ſhe had not ſeen me ſince ſhe left me in the Arbor, I began to be afraid to examine all that had happened to me with this pretended Spirit: I remembred very well it had not ſaid a word to me, that it was come ſooner than I could have expected Egidia; I fancyed even that it had opened the door without a key, and that it vaniſh'd when it left me: In a word, I yielded inſenſibly to that error, which ſerved to make me think in good earneſt of my Conſcience, and to make my peace with God. I was ſome days without ever going to the Convent, to avoid the ſight of the Abbeſs, though ſhe ſent ſeveral times to deſire me to take up my Lodgings at her houſe as formerly; excuſing my ſelf ſo well as I could, till I received this Letter, that Egidia made one of her Friends write to me.

I Believe God will grant me the mercy of a longer time for repentance: The Phyſicians have ſome hopes of my recovery, however it happens come and ſee me, to the end that if Death parts us, I may, in dying, have at leaſt this conſolation of diſcharging my duty, by telling you things that I am obliged to tell you. I expect you. Adieu.

This ſcene (purſued Monſieur Le Chevalier) will divert you but little, it being all of tears. I went to ſee her, and I avow to you I was ſo ſenſibly touch'd with her condition, that I was in one little better my ſelf. I could not maſter my ſelf, nor forbear to eaſe my afflicted mind by a torrent of tears: All thoſe that were preſent bore me company, and none but the Abbeſs that was not moved to ſee me thus afflicted. This poor creature, who ſuffered with me, made ſome efforts to ſay things to me the moſt kind and tender in the world: She ſpoke to me as if ſhe were to dye that day, and certainly none thought ſhe could live much longer: But Heaven would preſerve her to oblige the world with a moſt rare example of conſtancy, and a moſt honeſt and ſincere friendſhip, wherein we have ſince lived.

You know not perhaps (ſaid Madam d' Eyrac to him) that none contributed ſo much to her recovery as I; which was in this manner.

This Maid, or if you pleaſe, the Companion of the Abbeſs, which, as I told you more than once, had much confidence in me, failed not to give me an account of this laſt adventure in the Garden, and the fear your Miſtreſs was in, that it was not hard for me to gueſs the cauſe of her illneſs, and to find out means for her cure. Every body obſerv'd an extraordinary trouble in her eyes, and ſuch diſorder in her words, as though ſhe were in a continual ſtudy: I pitied her extremely, and though it was an injuſtice to my Friend to declare the ſecret wherewith ſhe had truſted me, I believed that in the extremity whereto this poor Lady was reduced, I ought not to omit any thing for her recovery: I took my time when there was none with her but a young Wench that ſerv'd her, and that I could not ſuſpect; and ask'd her with an air of confidence, if her indiſpoſition proceeded not from ſome diſturbance in her Mind, and if ſhe believed me not enough her friend, to truſt me with it. She look'd fixtly on me and bluſh'd, believing I meant to ſpeak to her of Monſieur Le Chevalier; but when I told her afterwards that I knew the cauſe of her illneſs perhaps better than ſhe her ſelf, and that I could deliver her from the fear ſhe had been in, in the Garden, ſhe raiſed her ſelf of a ſudden upon her Bed, My God! Madam, (ſaid ſhe) is it poſſible that in my ravings I have ſpoke of any ſuch things! No, no, (anſwered I interrupting her) I know it by another way, and I believe no body has heard any ſuch thing from you: The perſons that cauſed you this fear, told it me; and I believed I ought not to leave you longer in this pain: I imagine you'l be ſo diſcreet, as I ſhall have no reaſon to complain of you, and that you'l uſe as you ought the confidence I have in you. She promiſed me ſecrecy, and I told her all that had paſs'd in the Garden, as I was inform'd of it; at which ſhe was ſo aſtoniſh'd ſhe could ſcarce believe it, if I had not told her all that had happened to her ſelf, to the diſcourſe between her and Monſieur Le Chevalier She bluſh'd at it, and I ſaw well ſhe was aſham'd that I knew this particular of her Life: But to be ſhort, ſince that time her Mind was compoſed by degrees, till it came to its firſt ſettledneſs. She recovered her health, and in a little time her ſtrength alſo: I do not know how ſhe has ſince carried her ſelf towards you, but this I know, that ſhe made ſtrong reſolutions, though ſhe could not forbear loving you, to do it in ſuch a manner as ſhould not offend God.

I'll aſſure you, Madam, (anſwered Monſieur Le Chevalier) ſhe had kept them, and that our friendſhip is no more than what might be between a Brother and Siſter; though in truth, I have had much pain to reduce my ſelf to it, but at laſt I have brought my will to hers. Tell us a little, I beg of you, (ſaid the Marchioneſs de Sandal) what you did with the Abbeſs, and how you were rid of her. I believe (purſu'd Monſieur Le Chevalier) that the Abbeſ, was furiouſly exaſperated ſince that laſt evening, and that what ſhe heard when I was in the Arbor, perfected her cure. I always avoided being alone with her that little time I was in the Abby; and when I took my leave of her, 'twas in the preſence of five or ſix Ladies, her Friends.

Thus Monſieur Le Chevalier finiſh'd his Hiſtory, to the general ſatisfaction of the Company.