The convent of the Sisters of Charity bordered somewhere on the Boulevard. He had been directed thither, not by verbal instructions, but by signs, of which every Fleming seems to be a professor, as it saves the mighty labour of using his tongue. Each mynheer whom he accosted, being too lazy to use his mouth, generally replied by pointing with his long pipe, or by jerking the summit of his steeple-crowned hat in the direction inquired for.
The streets were thickly crowded with military convalescents, of every rank and of many nations. The regimentals were numerous. The English, the Prussian, the Highland, the Belgian, and the Hanoverian, were creeping about every where, supporting themselves on sticks and crutches; and in the sunny public areas, long ranks of them might be seen basking on the ground, or propped against the wall on stilts and wooden legs, yet all laughing and smoking, as merrily as crickets.
After a great deal of trouble, Ronald discovered the convent of the Sisters of Charity, somewhere near the end of the Boulevard, at the corner of the Rue aux Laines. It was a huge, desolate-looking building, and might very well have passed for the military prison, which is not far from it. Its windows were small,—grated and far between; and the whole place looked not the less sombre because the morning sun shone cheerily on its masses of grey wall, lighting up some projections vividly, and throwing others into the deepest shadow. He heard a bell tolling sadly somewhere close by, and a strain of choral voices mingled with its iron tones. It rung a knell, and a dismal foreboding fell upon Stuart as he listened. He struck gently with the gigantic knocker which ornamented the iron-studded gate, and immediately a panel was pulled aside, and the grim wrinkled visage of the _portière_ appeared within. He solicited admittance.
"No man can ever pass this threshold, monsieur," replied the other, who was a little woman of French Flanders, and clad in the garb of the order.
"How is the sister Antoinette de la Misericorde?"
"Thank Heaven!" exclaimed Ronald. "But can I not see her, Mademoiselle?"
"Oh, monsieur! that is impossible," replied the portiere sadly. "When I tell you she is gone to—"