At last, from a novice, Saint Amulfia became a full-blown nun, and from this time onward called Christ her “Celestial Husband.” The visions continued, and the conversations became so grotesque that Irene, on reading them, sometimes quite involuntarily burst into peals of laughter. She always, however, immediately and reproachfully stopped herself, thinking in horror: “How dare I? What am I doing? She was a _Saint_!” With every page, however, Irene’s perplexity grew. What if there were similar saints among the Sœurs Mauve? What if (God forbid!) she herself should become a saint? Irene tried to console herself with the thought that all this had taken place in the seventeenth century, in days of ignorance and mental darkness—on the other hand, however, she remembered that that had been the century of Corneille, Molière, Racine, the brilliant Madame de Sévigné, the golden age, indeed, of French literature. Beyond this, the entire arrangement of life in a Catholic Convent was new to her, and surprised her exceedingly. She had imagined a refuge for women who had been disappointed in life, and who longed for a quiet harbour where they would be sheltered from the storms of the world, and where, safely anchored at last, they could end their days in holiness and prayer. She had imagined the relations of the nuns to each other, as polite and friendly, much like those of well-bred people staying in the same hotel, and meeting each other every day at dinner. In reality there appeared to be a severe régime, by which she, Irene, would be obliged to submit in every way to the will of her Superior, who might be a trivial-minded, common person, capable of forcing her subordinates to spend their time in performing such “sacrifices” or “great deeds” as eating something they did not like, or occupying themselves with something useless that could not interest them. Irene shuddered at her own carelessness. Having made no enquiries whatever, she had painted for herself an imaginary romantic picture, and had been on the point of sacrificing in its favour the personal liberty she had always enjoyed. What, if on closer acquaintance, the happiness of that unknown, much-dreamt-of convent life proved to be an illusion? What if she should afterwards wish to escape from it, and it were too late, no return being possible? There came back to Irene’s recollection long-forgotten stories of unloved wives or unwanted daughters, who had been hidden away in Catholic convents, and whom no one had afterwards succeeded in saving or even tracing. For that matter, thought Irene, there was not even, in her case, anyone who would trouble about trying to trace her—so terribly alone was she in the world! For the first time in her life, she shuddered with sheer fright, and, together with this sudden fear, the thought of Gzhatski as her protector flashed through her mind.