The virtuous and holy man, shocked at the infirmity and want of propriety exhibited by the unfortunate girl, was very severe in his censures, and informed her that there was no way left for her but by penance and mortification to endeavour to wipe away her sin.

He condemned her, therefore, to take up her abode in that solitary cottage, far away from all human habitation, to spend her life in prayer and lamentation, and to endeavour, by voluntary affliction, to win her way to heaven.
She did so; and she and her child lived for ten years in that secluded spot, where the constant sound of murmuring waters drowned her sighs, and where no intruding foot came to disturb her solitude, except when the good priest, from time to time, visited her, to afford the consolation of his pious prayers.

At the end of that time her spirit departed, and her little son was received into the convent, of which he became a member.
THE RECLUSE OF THE VALLEE D'OSSAU.
"Say, ye waters raging round, Say, ye mountains, bleak and hoar, Is there quiet to be found, Where the world can vex no more?
May I hope that peace can be Granted to a wretch like me! "Hark! the vulture's savage shriek-- Hark! the grim wolf scares the night,-- Thunder peals from peak to peak, Ghastly snows shroud ev'ry height.
Hark! the torrent has a tone, Dismal--threat'ning--cold--alone! "Was I form'd for scenes like this, Flattered, trusting, vain and gay-- In whose smile _he_ said was bliss, Who to hear was to obey ?-- Yes! weak idol! 'tis thy doom, This thy guerdon--this thy tomb! "When I from my heart have torn All the mem'ries cherish'd long; When my early thought at morn, And my sigh at even-song, Have not all the self-same theme, Peace upon my soul may gleam! "When no more I paint his eyes, When his smile no more I see, And his tone's soft melodies Wake not in each sound to me; When I can efface the past, I may look for calm--at last.
"When resentment is at rest, Scorn and sorrow, rage and shame, Can be still'd within my breast-- And I start not at his name; When I weep, nor faint, nor feel, Then my heart's deep wounds may heal.
"Years, long years, it yet will take, Spite of pain and solitude, Ere this heart can cease to ache, And no restless dreams intrude: Ere I crush each fond belief, And oblivion vanquish grief.
"It might be--but in my child All his father lives the while; Such his eyes--so bright, so wild-- Such his air, his voice, his smile-- Still I see him o'er and o'er, Till I dare to gaze no more! "Is it sin to love him yet?
Was it sin to love at all?
Is my torture, my regret, For his loss--or for my fall?
Change, oh Heaven!--thou canst, thou wilt-- Thoughts that sink my soul in guilt! "Teach me that regret is crime, That my past despair is vain, And my penance through all time Shall be ne'er to hope again,-- Only in His pardon trust-- Pitying, merciful, and just." It is said that La Reine Marguerite, sister of Francis I., wrote the greatest part of her celebrated stories during a sojourn at the Eaux Chaudes: there, surrounded with a brilliant court of ladies and poets, she passed several joyous months, and recruited her health, while she amused her imagination, in wandering amongst the rocks and wild paths of Gabas and La Broussette: in her train were "_joueurs, farceurs, baladins_, and _garnemens de province_," and nothing but entertainment seemed the business of the lives of those fair and gay invalids, who, so long ago, set an example which has not failed to be well followed since.
The pompous inscription which once appeared in a chapel at La Hourat, in honour of the passage of the Princess Catherine, sister of Henri IV.

is now replaced by a modern exhortation to the traveller to implore the aid of the Virgin before he tempts the perils of the pass: and our guides very reverently took off their _berrets_, as they went by the little niche, where stands the image, which is an object of their adoration and hope.

Poor Catherine, always disconsolate at her separation from the object of her choice, found but little relief from the waters--they could not minister to a mind diseased--and she had not the joyous, careless mind of her predecessor and grandmother; nor are we told that she attempted to compose amusing histories to distract her thought, nor could exclaim-- "I write--sad task! that helps to wear away The long, long, mournful melancholy day; Write what the fervour of my soul inspires, And vainly fan love's slow-consuming fires." All was sad and solitary to her; for the only companion she desired was not there to give her his hand along the rugged paths, to support her amongst the glittering snows, and smooth her way through the pleasing difficulties of the abrupt ascents.