This meagre fare，which was reserved for the pupils alone，was，nevertheless，an exception.The children ate in silence，under the eye of the mother whose turn it was，who，if a fly took a notion to fly or to hum against the rule，opened and shut a wooden book from time to time.This silence was seasoned with the lives of the saints，read aloud from a little pulpit with a desk，which was situated at the foot of the crucifix.
The reader was one of the big girls，in weekly turn.At regular distances，on the bare tables，there were large，varnished bowls in which the pupils washed their own silver cups and knives and forks，and into which they sometimes threw some scrap of tough meat or spoiled fish；this was punished.
These bowls were called ronds d'eau.The child who broke the silence'made a cross with her tongue.'
Where？
On the ground.
She licked the pavement.The dust，that end of all joys，was charged with the chastisement of those poor little rose-leaves which had been guilty of chirping.
There was in the convent a book which has never been printed except as a unique copy，and which it is forbidden to read.
It is the rule of Saint-Benoit.An arcanum which no profane eye must penetrate.Nemo regulas，seu constitutiones nostras，externis communicabit.
The pupils one day succeeded in getting possession of this book，and set to reading it with avidity，a reading which was often interrupted by the fear of being caught，which caused them to close the volume precipitately.
From the great danger thus incurred they derived but a very moderate amount of pleasure.
The most'interesting thing'they found were some unintelligible pages about the sins of young boys.
They played in an alley of the garden bordered with a few shabby fruit-trees.In spite of the extreme surveillance and the severity of the punishments administered，when the wind had shaken the trees，they sometimes succeeded in picking up a green apple or a spoiled apricot or an inhabited pear on the sly.
I will now cede the privilege of speech to a letter which lies before me，a letter written five and twenty years ago by an old pupil，now Madame la Duchesse de——one of the most elegant women in Paris.
I quote literally：'One hides one's pear or one's apple as best one may.When one goes up stairs to put the veil on the bed before supper，one stuffs them under one's pillow and at night one eats them in bed，and when one cannot do that，one eats them in the closet.'That was one of their greatest luxuries.
Once——it was at the epoch of the visit from the archbishop to the convent——one of the young girls，Mademoiselle Bouchard，who was connected with the Montmorency family，laid a wager that she would ask for a day's leave of absence——an enormity in so austere a community.The wager was accepted，but not one of those who bet believed that she would do it.
When the moment came，as the archbishop was passing in front of the pupils，Mademoiselle Bouchard，to the indescribable terror of her companions，stepped out of the ranks，and said，'Monseigneur，a day's leave of absence.'
Mademoiselle Bouchard was tall，blooming，with the prettiest little rosy face in the world.M.de Quelen smiled and said，'What，my dear child，a day's leave of absence！
Three days if you like.
I grant you three days.'The prioress could do nothing；the archbishop had spoken.Horror of the convent，but joy of the pupil.
The effect may be imagined.
This stern cloister was not so well walled off，however，but that the life of the passions of the outside world，drama，and even romance，did not make their way in.
To prove this，we will confine ourselves to recording here and to briefly mentioning a real and incontestable fact，which，however，bears no reference in itself to，and is not connected by any thread whatever with the story which we are relating.
We mention the fact for the sake of completing the physiognomy of the convent in the reader's mind.
About this time there was in the convent a mysterious person who was not a nun，who was treated with great respect，and who was addressed as Madame Albertine.
Nothing was known about her，save that she was mad，and that in the world she passed for dead.Beneath this history it was said there lay the arrangements of fortune necessary for a great marriage.
This woman，hardly thirty years of age，of dark complexion and tolerably pretty，had a vague look in her large black eyes.Could she see？
There was some doubt about this.
She glided rather than walked，she never spoke；it was not quite known whether she breathed.
Her nostrils were livid and pinched as after yielding up their last sigh.
To touch her hand was like touching snow.She possessed a strange spectral grace.
Wherever she entered，people felt cold.
One day a sister，on seeing her pass，said to another sister，'She passes for a dead woman.'
'Perhaps she is one，'replied the other.
A hundred tales were told of Madame Albertine.
This arose from the eternal curiosity of the pupils.
In the chapel there was a gallery called L'OEil de Boeuf.
It was in this gallery，which had only a circular bay，an oeil de boeuf，that Madame Albertine listened to the offices.
She always occupied it alone because this gallery，being on the level of the first story，the preacher or the officiating priest could be seen，which was interdicted to the nuns.One day the pulpit was occupied by a young priest of high rank，M.Le Duc de Rohan，peer of France，officer of the Red Musketeers in 1815 when he was Prince de Leon，and who died afterward，in 1830，as cardinal and Archbishop of Besancon.
It was the first time that M.de Rohan had preached at the Petit-Picpus convent.Madame Albertine usually preserved perfect calmness and complete immobility during the sermons and services.
That day，as soon as she caught sight of M.de Rohan，she half rose，and said，in a loud voice，amid the silence of the chapel，'Ah！
Auguste！'
