embellished and preserved the first years of her youth, composed the rest by her philosophy, and seemed as if it must preserve her for ever from the tempests of passion.  Her devotion was ardent; it took the tints of her soul, and she aspired to the cloister, and dreamed of martyrdom.  Entering a convent, she found there propitious moments, surrendering her thoughts to mysticism and her heart to first friendships.  The monotonous regularity of this life gently soothed the activity of her meditations.  In the hours of relaxation she did not play with her companions, but retired beneath some tree to read and muse.  As sensitive as Rousseau to the beauty of foliage, the rustling of the grass, the odour of the herbs, she admired the hand of God, and kissed it in his works.  Overflowing with gratitude and inward delight, she went to adore him at church.  There the sonorous organ’s lengthened peal, uniting with the voices of the youthful nuns, completed the excess of her ecstacy.  The Catholic religion has every mysterious fascination for the senses, and pleasure for the imagination.  A novice took the veil during her residence in the convent.  Her presentation at the entrance, her white veil, her crown of roses, the sweet and soothing hymns which directed her from earth to heaven, the mortuary cloth cast over her youthful and buried beauty, and over her palpitating heart, made the young artist shudder, and overwhelmed her with tears.  Her destiny opened to her the image of great sacrifices, and she felt within herself by anticipation all the courage and the suffering.

IV.

The charm and custom of these religious feelings were never effaced from her mind.  Philosophy, which soon became her worship, dissipated her faith, but left the impression it had created.  She could not assist at the ceremonies of a worship whose mysteries her reason had repudiated, without feeling their attraction and respect.  The sight of weak men united to adore and pray to the Father of the human race affected her sensibly.  The music raised her to the skies.  She quitted these Christian temples happier and better; so much are the recollections of infancy reflected and prolonged even in the most troubled existence.

This impassioned taste for infinity and pious sentiment continued their influences over her after her return to her father’s house.  “My father’s house had not,” she writes, “the solitary tranquillity of the convent, still plenty of air, and a wide space on the roof of our house near the Pont Neuf, were before my dreamy and romantic imagination.  How many times from my window, which looked northward, have I contemplated with emotions the vast deserts of heaven, its glorious azure vault, so splendidly framed from the blue dawn of morning, behind the Pont-du-Change, until the golden sunset, when the glorious purple faded away behind the trees of the Champs Elysees and the houses of Chaillot.  I did not fail thus to employ some moments at the close of a fine day; and quiet tears frequently stole deliciously from my eyes, whilst my heart, throbbing with an inexpressible sentiment, happy thus to beat, and grateful to exist, offered to the Being of beings a homage pure and worthy of him.”