When I lie down at night, the evil spirit is beside my bed, reproaching
me with perjury, and reclaiming his prey;--his emissaries surround me
wherever I move,--I am beset by the tortures of hell. The saints from
their shrines frown on me,--I see the painting of the traitor Judas on
every side I turn to. When I sleep for a moment, I am awakened by my own
cries. I exclaim, “Do not betray me, he has not yet violated his vows, I
was but an agent,--I was bribed,--do not kindle those fires for me.” I
shudder,--I start up in a cold sweat. My rest, my appetite, are gone. Would to God you were out of this convent;--and O! would that I had
never been instrumental to your release, then both of us might have
escaped damnation to all eternity.” I tried to pacify him, to assure him
of his safety, but nothing could satisfy him but my solemn and sincere
assurance that this was the last packet I would ever ask him to deliver. He departed tranquillized by this assurance; and I felt the dangers of
my attempt multiplying around me every hour. “This man was faithful, but he was timid; and what confidence can we
have in a being whose right hand is held out to you, while his left
trembles to be employed in transferring your secret to your enemy. This
man died a few weeks after. I believe I owed his dying fidelity to the
delirium that seized on his last moments. But what I suffered during
those moments!--his death under such circumstances, and the unchristian
joy I felt at it, were only in my mind stronger evidences against the
unnatural state of life that could render such an event, and such
feelings, almost necessary. It was on the evening after this, that I was
surprised to see the Superior, with four of the monks, enter my cell. I
felt this visit boded me no good. I trembled all over, while I received
them with deference. The Superior seated himself opposite to me,
arranging his seat so as that I was opposite the light. I did not
understand what this precaution meant, but I conceive now, that he
wished to watch every change in my countenance, while his was concealed
from me. The four monks stood at the back of his chair; their arms were
folded, their lips closed, their eyes half shut, their heads
declined--they looked like men assembled reluctantly to witness the
execution of a criminal. The Superior began, in a mild voice, “My son,
you have been intently employed on your confession for some time--that
was laudable. But have you, then, accused yourself of every crime your
conscience charges you with?” “I have, my father.” “Of all, you are
sure?” “My father, I have accused myself of all I was conscious of. Who
but God can penetrate the abysses of the heart? I have searched mine as
far as I could.” “And you have recorded all the accusations you found
there?” “I have.” “And you did not discover among them the crime of
obtaining the means of writing out your confession, to abuse them to a
very different purpose?”--This was coming to the point. I felt it
necessary to summon my resolution--and I said, with a venial
equivocation, “That is a crime of which my conscience _does not accuse
me_.” “My son, do not dissemble with your conscience, or with me. I
should be even above it in your estimation; for if it errs and deceives
you, it is to me you should apply to enlighten and direct it. But I see
it is in vain to attempt to touch your heart. I make my last appeal to
it in these plain words. A few moments only of indulgence await you--use
them or abuse them, as you will. I have to ask you a few plain
questions, which, if you refuse to answer, or do not answer truly, your
blood be on your own head.” I trembled, but I said, “My father, have I
then refused to answer your questions?” “Your answers are all either
interrogations or evasions. They must be direct and simple to the
questions I am about to propose in the presence of these brethren. More
depends on your answer than you are aware of. The warning voice breaks
forth in spite of me.”--Terrified at these words, and humbled to the
wish to propitiate them, I rose from my chair--then gasping, I leant on
it for support. I said, “My God! what is all this terrible preparation
for? Of what am I guilty? Why am I summoned by this warning voice so
often, whose warnings are only so many mysterious threatenings? Why am I
not told of my offence?”

“The four monks, who had never spoken or lifted up their heads till
that moment, now directed their livid eyes at me, and repeated,
all together, in a voice that seemed to issue from the bottom of
a sepulchre, “Your crime is--” The Superior gave them a signal to
be silent, and this interruption increased my consternation. It is
certain, that when we are conscious of guilt, we always suspect
that a greater degree of it will be ascribed to us by others. Their
consciences avenge the palliations of our own, by the most horrible
exaggerations. I did not know of what crime they might be disposed
to accuse me; and already I felt the accusation of my clandestine
correspondence as dust in the balance of their resentment. I had heard
the crimes of convents were sometimes unutterably atrocious; and I
felt as anxious now for a distinct charge to be preferred against me,
as I had a few moments before to evade it. These indefinite fears were
soon exchanged for real ones, as the Superior proposed his questions. “You have procured a large quantity of paper--how did you employ it?”
I recovered myself, and said, “As I ought to do.” “How, in unburdening
your conscience?” “Yes, in unburdening my conscience.” “That is false;
the greatest sinner on earth could not have blotted so many pages with
the record of his crimes.” “I have often been told in the convent, I
_was_ the greatest sinner on earth.” “You equivocate again, and convert
your ambiguities into reproaches--this will not do--you must answer
plainly: For what purpose did you procure so much paper, and how have
you employed it?” “I have told you already.” “It was, then, employed
in your confession?”--I was silent, but bowed assentingly.--“You
can, then, shew us the proofs of your application to your duties. Where is the manuscript that contains your confession?” I blushed and
hesitated, as I showed about half-a-dozen blotted and scrawled pages as
my confession. It was ridiculous. It did not occupy more than a tenth
part of the paper which I had received. “And this is your confession?”
“It is.” “And you dare to say that you have employed all the paper
entrusted to you for that purpose.”--I was silent. “Wretch!” said the
Superior, losing all patience, “disclose instantly for what purpose
you have employed the paper granted you. Acknowledge instantly that
it was for some purpose contrary to the interests of this house.”--At
these words I was roused. I saw again the cloven foot of interest
peeping from beneath the monastic garb. I answered, “Why am I suspected
if _you_ are not guilty? What could I accuse you of? What could I
complain of if there were no cause?