by betrayed
friendship. The tower of the cathedral, with its mild majestic mien,
hovers above the French-fashioned, grave-looking garden; but it is
neither seen from the dark little alley, nor from the dull cabinet; a
place confined, cold, and of a disagreeable aspect, which in spite of
noble reminiscences, disheartens us by its vulgarity, and reminds us
that this fine genius, the best priest of his age, was still a _Priest_.

There was scarcely any other point by which this domineering spirit
could be touched, than docility and obedience. The good Cornuau
exercised these qualities in a degree he could hardly have expected.
She gives much, and we see that she hides still more, for fear of
displeasing him. She set all her wits to work, to follow, as far as
her natural mediocrity permitted her, the tastes and ideas of this
great man. He had a genius for government; and she had it also in
miniature. She took upon herself the business of the community with
which she lived, and at the same time transacted that of her own
family. She waited in this manner fifteen years before she was allowed
to become a nun. She at last obtained this favour, and had herself
called the Sister of Saint-_Benigne_, thus assuming, rather boldly
perhaps, Bossuet's own name. These real cares, in which the prudent
director kept her a long time, had an excellent effect upon her, in
diverting and pruning her imagination. She was of an impassioned,
honest, but rather ordinary disposition; and, unfortunately for her,
she had enough good sense to confess to herself what she was. She
knows, and she tells herself, that she is only a commoner of the lower
order; that she has neither birth, wit, grace, nor connection; that she
has not even seen Versailles! What chance would she have of gaining
his favour in a struggle against the other spiritual daughters, those
fine ladies, ever brilliant even in their penitence and voluntary
abasement?

It seems that she had hoped at first to have her revenge in some other
way, and to rise above these worldly ladies by the path of mysticism.
She took it into her head one day to have visions: she wrote one, of a
very paltry imagination, which Bossuet did not encourage. What could
she do? Nature had denied her wings; she saw plainly that most
certainly she would not be able to fly. At any rate, she had no pride;
she did not try to conceal the sad condition of her heart; and this
humiliating confession escapes