



Produced by Michael Wooff





The Legend of Sister Beatrix

Charles Nodier (1780-1844)


Not far from the highest peak in the Jura, but descending a
little down its <DW72> facing west, one could still see, going
on for half a century ago, a mass of ruins that had belonged
to the church and the convent of Our Lady of the Flowering Thorns.
It is at one end of a deep and narrow gorge, much more sheltered
to the north, which produces each year, thanks to its favourable
aspect, the rarest flowers of that region.  Half a league from
there, from the opposite end of the gorge, the debris of an
ancient manor house is visible which has itself disappeared
like the house of God.  We only know that it used to be lived
in by a family renowned for its feats of arms and that the last
of the noble knights to bear its name died in winning back the
tomb of Jesus Christ for Christians without an heir to propagate
his line.  His inconsolable widow would not abandon a place so
conducive to the upkeep of her melancholy, but the rumour of
her piety spread far and wide as did her works of charity and
a glorious tradition has perpetuated her memory for future
generations of Christians.  The people, who have forgotten all
her other names, still call her THE SAINT.

On one of those days when winter, coming to an end, suddenly
relaxes its rigour under the influence of a temperate sky, THE
SAINT was walking, as usual, down the long driveway leading to
her castle, her mind given over to pious meditations.  She came
in this way to the thorny bushes that still mark its end, and
saw, with no little surprise, that one of these shrubs had
taken on already all its springtime finery. She hastened to
get nearer to it in order to assure herself that this semblance
was not produced by a remnant of snow that had failed to melt,
and, delighted to see it crowned, in effect, by an innumerable
multitude of beautiful little white stars with rays of crimson,
she carefully detached a branch to hang it in her oratory before
a picture of the Virgin Mary she had held in great reverence
since childhood, and went back joyfully to take to her this
innocent offering.  Whether this modest tribute really pleased
the divine mother of Jesus or whether a special pleasure, which
it is difficult to define, is reserved for the least outpouring
of a tender heart to the object of its affection, never had the
soul of the chatelaine been as open to more ineffable emotions
than those she felt that mild evening.  She promised herself,
with a joy that was ingenuous, to go back every day to the bush
in bloom in order to daily bring back a fresh garland.  We may
well believe that she was faithful to that promise.

One day, however, when her care for the poor and sick had kept
her busy longer than usual, it was in vain that she hurried to
reach her wild flowerbed.  Night got there before her, and it is
said that she started to regret having let herself be taken over
quite so much by this solitary place, when a clarity calm and
pure, like that which comes to us with daylight, suddenly showed
her all her flowering thorns.  She stopped walking for a moment,
struck by the thought that this light might emanate from a camp
fire made by bandits, for it was impossible to imagine it having
been produced by myriads of glow-worms, hatched before their time.
The year was not far gone enough for the warm and peaceful nights
of summer.  Nevertheless, her self-imposed obligation came to mind
and gave her courage.  She walked lightly, holding her breath,
towards the bush with the white flowers, seized in a trembling hand
a branch which seemed to