to celestial meditation.

In her earliest youth she had been placed in the convent of
Faremoustier, where nothing was neglected that could tend to inspire her
with a desire for cloister life. Her father, the Duke of Mantua, had
determined that his two younger daughters, Anne and Benedicte, should
help, by taking the veil, to augment the fortune of their elder sister.
Benedicte submitted to her fate, but Anne soon perceived what her
father's plan was, and in her indignation she resolved to defeat it.
Unlike her younger sister, she had an adventurous spirit, an ardent
imagination, a strong desire to play an active part in life. Even to
withdraw from a mode of existence that was hateful to her, she made her
escape from Faremoustier, and went to confide to her sister's bosom, in
the convent of Avenai, her wrath, her _ennui_, and her hopes. For awhile
it seemed as though conventual life was about to exercise a strange
fascination over her. The discourse and example of her sister touched
deeply the youthful heart which had proved rebellious to a parent's
will. It seemed not improbable that she would yield to persuasion that
which she had refused to compulsion. But her destiny determined
otherwise. Events cast her upon another course; her imperfect vocation
yielded quickly to their influence. She had been worked upon, in the
solitude of the cloister, by that mysterious yearning for an encounter
with those struggles which human passions involve, the experience of
which can alone extinguish such yearning in certain souls. It was
necessary that she should see the world, undergo its deceptions, and be
wearied of it, in order to desire repose and be capable of appreciating
the inestimable blessings of peace and silence and tranquillity.

The Duke of Mantua dying in 1637, Anne was obliged to leave the cloister
on business connected with the paternal succession, and appeared at
Court with Marie, her elder sister. The turmoil of the world and its
sensuous enjoyments speedily engrossed the young and lovely princess,
involved her in their trammels, and only restored her to tranquillity
and solitude after a lapse of many years; for at this time she also lost
her sister, the youthful abbess of Avenai, and the last link which
attached Anne to cloister life was severed by that death. An absorbing
passion, too, was destined to confirm her relinquishment of such
vocation. The youthful Henri de Guise was then one of the most brilliant
gentle