Aurore wandered at first about the convent with only a vague feeling of loneliness. The young girls, French and English, who composed its classes, surveyed her in the beginning with distrust. Soon the youngest and wildest set, called _Diables_, accorded her affiliation, and in their company she managed to increase tolerably the anxieties and troubles of the under-mistresses. She was early initiated into the _great secret_, the traditionary legend of the convent. This pointed at the existence, in some subterranean dungeon, of a wretched prisoner, or perhaps of several, cut off from liberty and light; and to _deliver the victim_ became the object of a hundred wild expeditions, by day and by night, through the uninhabited rooms and extensive vaults of the ancient edifice. The little ladies hoarded with care their candle-ends,--they tumbled up and down ruinous staircases, listened for groans and complaints, tried to undermine walls and partitions, fortunately with little success. The victim was never found, but her story was bequeathed from class to class, and her deliverance was always the object and excuse of the _Diables_. After much time wasted in these pursuits, attended by a mediocre progress in the ordinary course of study and what the French call _leçons d'agrément_, and we accomplishments, a critical moment came for Aurore. She was weary of frolic and mischief,--she had tormented the nuns to her heart's content. She knew not what new comedy to invent. She thought of putting ink in the holy water,--it had been done already; of hanging the parrot of the under-mistress,--but they had given her so many frights, there would be nothing new in that. She saw, one evening, the door of the little chapel open;--its quiet, its exquisite cleanliness and simplicity attracted her. She had followed thither to mock at the awkward motions of a little hunch-backed sister at her devotions,--but once within she forgot this object. A veiled nun was kneeling in her stall at prayer,--a single lamp feebly illuminated the white walls,--a star looked in at her through the dim window. The nun slowly rose and departed. Aurore was left alone. A calm, such as she had never known, took possession of her,--a sudden light seemed to envelop her,--she heard the mystical sentence vouchsafed to Saint Augustin: "_Toile, lege!_" Turning to see who whispered it, she found herself alone.