The nuns of the order of Saint Augusta were not expelled in consequence of the Decrees. This was a special favour, but one fully justified, because of the incalculable benefits this community conferred on suffering humanity. The vast convent of rue de la Glacière continues to serve as a shelter for these holy women, and as a sort of hospital for the sick.

For close on a hundred years, generation after generation of those living near its walls have heard the convent clock sound the hours in solemn tones; so, too, the convent chapel’s shrill-voiced bells have never failed to remind the faithful that the daily prayers of their church are being said and sung by the holy sisters within the hallowed walls.

In this vast quarter of Paris, peopled with hospitals and prisons, the convent presents a stern front in the shape of a high, blackened wall. A great courtyard gate, in which is a window with iron bars and grating, is the only visible opening to the exterior world.

About half-past six in the morning, slightly out of breath from his rapid walk from the Metropolitan station, Jérôme Fandor rang the convent door bell. The sound could be heard echoing and re-echoing in the vaulted corridors, till it died away in the stony distance. There was a silence: then the iron-barred window was half opened, and Fandor heard a voice asking:

“What do you want, monsieur?”

“I wish to speak to Madame la Supérieure,” replied Fandor.

The window was closed again and a lengthy silence followed. Then, slowly, the heavy entrance gate swung half open. Fandor entered the convent. Under the arched doorway, a nun received him with a slight salutation, and turned her back.

“Kindly follow me,” she murmured.

Fandor followed along a narrow passage, on one side of which were cells, while on the other, it opened by means of large bays, on a vast rectangular cloister that was quite deserted. A door-window in the passage was ajar: the nun stopped here and said:

“Kindly wait in this parlour, and be good enough to let me have your card. I will inform our Mother Superior that you wish to see her.”

The room in which the journalist found himself was sparsely furnished: its walls were white; on them hung a great ivory crucifix, and, here and there, a simple religious picture framed in ebony. A few chairs were ranged in a circle about an oval table; on the floor, polished till it shone like a mirror, were a few small mats, which gave a touch of commonplace comfort to the icy austerity of this parlour, set apart for official visits.