She almost danced as
she went along, she felt so free and happy. "How glad I am to
have quitted the convent," she thought to herself; "how _triste_
it was, how dismal! How can people exist who always, always
live there? They do not live, I think, they seem half dead
already. Aunt Therese, how mournful and cold she always
looked; she never smiled, she hardly ever spoke; she was not
alive as other people are. Soeur Lucie told me that she would
be a glorious saint in Heaven, and ten thousand times more
happy than if she had not lived in the convent; how does Soeur
Lucie know, I wonder? If so, she must have been glad to die--it
was, perhaps, for that, that she made herself so miserable,
that she might not dread death when it came; but that seems to
me a very foolish way of spending one's life. And if to be
like Aunt Therese was to be a saint, I am sure all the nuns
were not so. How they used to chatter and quarrel sometimes;
Soeur Marie would hardly speak to Soeur Lucie for a week, I
remember, because she said Soeur Lucie had made Aunt Therese
give her the best piece of embroidery to do, after it had been
promised to her.
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