CHAPTER 29

While providence, on the one hand, appointed my forsaking all things,

it seemed on the other to make my chains the stronger, and my

separation the more blameable. None could receive stronger marks of

affection from one's own mother than those which I received at this

time from my mother-in-law. Even the least sickness which befell me

made her very uneasy. She said, "she had veneration for my virtue." I

believe what contributed not a little to this change was, that she had

heard that three persons had offered suit to me, and that I had refused

them, although their fortune and quality were quite superior to mine.

She remembered how she had upbraided me on this head, and I answered

her not a word, whereby she might understand that it depended on myself

to marry to advantage. She began to fear lest such rigorous treatment,

as hers had been toward me, might excite me to deliver myself by such

means, with honor, from her tyranny, and was sensible what damage that

might be to my children. So she was now very tender to me on every

occasion.

I fell extremely ill. I thought that God had accepted of my willingness

to sacrifice all to him, and required that of my life. During this

illness, my mother-in-law went not from my bedside; her many tears

proved the sincerity of her affection. I was very much affected at it,

and thought I loved her as my true mother. How, then, should I leave

her now, being so far advanced in age? The maid, who till then had been

my plague, took an inconceivable friendship for me. She praised me

everywhere, extolling my virtue to the highest and served me with

extraordinary respect. She begged pardon for all that she had made me

suffer, and died of grief after my departure.

There was a priest of merit, a spiritual man, who had fallen in with

temptation of taking upon him employment which I was sensible God did

not call him to do. Fearing it might be a snare to him, I advised him

against it. He promised me he would not do it, and yet accepted it. He

then avoided me, joined in calumniating me, gradually fell away from

grace, and died soon after.

There was a nun in a monastery I often went to, who was entered into a

state of purification, which everyone in the house looked on as

distraction. They locked her up and all who went to see her called it

phrenzy or melancholy. I knew her to be devout I requested to see her.

As soon as I approached, I felt an impression that she sought purity. I

desired of the Superior that she should not be locked up, nor should

people be admitted to see her, but that she would confide her to my

care. I hoped things would change. I discovered that her greatest pain

was at being counted a fool. I advised her to bear the state of

foolishness, since Jesus Christ had been willing to bear it before

Herod. This sacrifice gave her a calmness at once. But as God was

willing to purify her soul, He separated her from all those things for

which she had before the greatest attachment. At last, after she had

patiently undergone her sufferings, her Superior wrote to me that "I

was in the right, and that she had now come out of that state of

dejection, in greater purity than ever." The Lord gave to me alone at

that time to know her state. This was the commencement of the gift of

discerning spirits, which I afterward received more fully.

The winter before I left home was one of the longest and hardest that

had been for several years (1680). It was followed with extreme

scarcity, which proved to me an occasion of exercising charity. My

mother-in-law joined me heartily and appeared to me so much changed. I

could not but be both surprised and overjoyed at it. We distributed at

the house ninety-six dozen loaves of bread every week, but private

charities to the bashful poor were much greater. I kept poor boys and

girls employed. The Lord gave such blessings to my alms, that I did not

find that my family lost anything by it. Before the death of my

husband, my mother-in-law told him that I would ruin him with my

charities, though he himself was so charitable, that in a very dear

year, while he was young, he distributed a considerable sum. She

repeated this to him so often, that he commanded me to set down in

writing all the money I laid out, both what I gave for the expense of

the house, and all that I caused to be bought, that he might better

judge of what I gave to the poor. This new obligation, which I was

brought under, appeared to me so much the harder, as for above eleven

years we had been married I never before had this required of me. What

troubled me most was the fear of having nothing to give to such as

wanted. However, I submitted to it, without retrenching any part of my

charities. I did not indeed set down any of my alms, and yet my account

of expenses was found to answer exactly. I was much surprised and

astonished, and esteemed it one of the wonders of Providence. I saw

plainly it was simply given out of Thy treasury, O my Lord, that made

me more liberal of what I thought was the Lord's, and not mine. Oh, if

we but knew how far charity, instead of wasting or lessening the

substance of the donor, blessed, increased and multiplied it profusely.

How much is there in the world of useless dissipation, which, if

properly applied, might amply serve for the subsistence of the poor,

and would abundantly be restored, and amply rewarded to the families of

those who gave it.

In the time of my greatest trials, some years after my husband's death

(for they began three years before my widowhood, and lasted four years

after) my footman came one day to tell me, (I was then in the country)

that there was in the road a poor soldier dying. I had him brought in,

and ordering a separate place to be made ready for him, I kept above a

fortnight. His malady was a flux, which he had taken in the army. It

was so nauseous, that though the domestics were charitably inclined,

nobody could bear to come near him. I went myself to take away his

vessels. But I never did anything of the kind which was so hard. I

frequently made efforts for a full quarter of an hour at a time. It

seemed as if my very heart was going to come up; yet I never desisted.

I sometimes kept the poor people at my house to dress their putrid

sores; but never met with anything so terrible as this. The poor man,

after I had made him receive the sacrament, died.

What gave me now no small concern was the tenderness I had for my

children, especially my younger son, whom I had strong reasons for

loving. I saw him inclined to be good; everything seemed to favor the

hopes I had conceived of him. I thought it running a great risk to

leave him to another's education. My daughter I designed to take with

me, though she was at this time ill of a very tedious fever. Providence

was pleased, however, so to order it that she speedily recovered. The

ties, with which the Lord held me closely united to Himself, were

infinitely stronger than those of flesh and blood. The laws of my

sacred marriage obliged me to give up all, to follow my spouse

whithersoever it was His pleasure to call me after Him. Though I often

hesitated, and doubted much before I went, I never doubted after my

going of its being His will; and though men, who judge of things only

according to the success they seem to have, have taken occasion from my

disgraces and sufferings, to judge of my calling, and to run it down as

error, illusion and imagination; it is that very persecution, and a

multitude of strange crosses it has drawn upon me, (of which this

imprisonment I now suffer is one,) which have confirmed me in the

certainty of its truth and validity. I am more than ever convinced that

the resignation which I have made of everything is in pure obedience to

the divine will.

The gospel effectually in this point shows itself to be true, which has

promised to those that shall leave all for the love of the Lord, "an

hundred fold in this life, and persecutions also." And have not I

infinitely more than an hundred fold, in so entire a possession as my

Lord hast taken of me; in that unshaken firmness which is given me in

my sufferings, in a perfect tranquillity in the midst of a furious

tempest, which assaults me on every side; in an unspeakable joy,

enlargedness and liberty which I enjoy in a most straight and rigorous

captivity. I have no desire that my imprisonment should end before the

right time. I love my chains. Everything is equal to me, as I have no

will of my own, but purely the love and will of Him who possesses me.

My senses indeed have not any relish for such things, but my heart is

separated from them. My perseverance is not of myself, but of Him who

is my life; so that I can say with the apostle, "It is no more I that

live, but Jesus Christ that liveth in me." It is He in whom I live,

move, and have my being.

To return to the subject, I say that I was not so reluctant to go with

the New Catholics, as I was to engage with them, not finding a

sufficient attraction, though I sought for it. I longed indeed to

contribute to the conversion of wandering souls, and God made use of me

to convert several families before my departure, one of which was

composed of eleven or twelve persons. Besides, Father La Combe had

written to me, to make use of this opportunity for setting off, but did

not tell me whether I ought to engage with them or not. Thus it was the

Providence of my God alone, which ordered everything, to which I was

resigned without any reserve; and that hindered me from engaging with

them.

One day reflecting humanly on this undertaking of mine, I found my

faith staggering, weakened with a fear lest I were under a mistake,

which slavish fear was increased by an ecclesiastic at our house, who

told me it was a rash and ill-advised design. Being a little

discouraged, I opened the Bible, and met with this passage in Isaiah,

"Fear not thou worm Jacob, and ye men of Israel. I will help thee saith

the Lord, and thy Redeemer, the holy one of Israel." (Chap. 61:14) and

near it, "Fear not; for I have redeemed thee, I have called thee by thy

name; thou art mine. When thou passest through the waters, I will be

with thee."

I had a very great courage given me for going, but could not persuade

myself that it would be best to settle with the New Catholics. It was,

however, necessary to see Sister Garnier, their superior at Paris, in

order to take our measures together. But I could not go to Paris,

because that journey would have hindered me from taking another, which

I had to take. She then, though much indisposed, resolved to come and

see me. In what a wonderful manner, O my God, didst Thou conduct things

by Thy Providence, to make everything come to the point of Thy will!

Every day I saw new miracles, which both amazed and still more

confirmed me; for with a paternal goodness Thou tookest care of even

the smallest things. As she intended setting off, she fell sick. And

Thou permitted it to fall out so, to give room thereby for a person,

who would have discovered everything, in the meantime to take a journey

to see me. As this person had given me notice of the day she intended

to set off, seeing that day was excessively hot, and so sultry that I

imagined that being taken so much tender care of as she was at home,

they would not suffer her to begin her journey, (which really proved to

be the case, as she afterward told me,) I prayed to the Lord to be

pleased to grant a wind to rise, to moderate the violent heat. Scarce

had I prayed, but there arose suddenly so refreshing a wind, that I was

surprised and the wind did not cease during her whole journey.

I went to meet her, and brought her to my countryhouse, in such a way

that she was not seen or known of anybody. What embarrassed me a little

was, that two of my domestics knew her. But as I was then endeavoring

the conversion of a lady, they thought that it was on this account I

had sent for her, and that it was necessary to keep it secret, that the

other lady might not be discouraged from coming. Though I knew nothing

of controversial points, yet God so furnished me that I did not fail to

answer all her objections, and resolve all her doubts, to such a

degree, that she could not but give herself up entirely to God. Though

Sister Garnier had a good share of both of grace and natural

understanding, yet her words had not such an effect on this soul as

those with which God furnished me, as she assured me herself. She even

could not forbear speaking of it. I felt a movement to beg her of God,

as a testimony of His holy will concerning me. But He was pleased not

to grant it then, being willing that I should go off alone without any

other assurance than His divine Providence was conducting all things.

Sister Garnier did not declare her thoughts to me for four days. Then

she told me she would not go with me. At this I was the more surprised,

as I had persuaded myself that God would grant to her virtue what He

might refuse to my demerits. Besides, the reason she gave appeared to

me to be merely human, and void of supernatural grace. That made me

hesitate a little; then, taking new courage, through the resignation of

my whole self, I said, "As I go not thither for your sake, I will not

fail to go even without you." This surprised her, as she acknowledged

to me; for she thought that, on her refusal, I would decline my purpose

of going.

I regulated everything, wrote down the contract of association with

them as I thought proper. No sooner had I done it, but I felt great

perturbation and trouble of mind. I told her my pain, and that I had no

doubt but the Lord demanded me at Geneva, yet did not let me see that

He would have me to be of their congregation. She desired to have some

time till after prayers and communion, and that then she would tell me

what she thought the Lord required of me. Accordingly, He directed her

contrary both to her interests and inclination. She then told me that I

ought not to connect myself with her, that it was not the Lord's

design; that I only ought to go with her sister's, and that when I

should be there, Father La Combe, (whose letter she had seen) would

signify to me the divine will. I entered at once into these sentiments,

and my soul then regained the sweets of inward peace.

My first thought had been (before I heard of the New Catholics going to

Gex) to go directly to Geneva. At this time there were Catholics there

in service, and otherwise; to take some little room without any noise,

and without declaring myself at first; and as I knew how to make up all

sorts of ointments to heal wounds and especially the king's evil, of

which there is abundance in that place, and for which I had a most

certain cure. I hoped easily to insinuate myself by this way and with

the charities which I should have done to have won over many of the

people. I have no doubt but, if I had followed this impulse, things

would have succeeded better. But I thought I ought to follow the

sentiments of the Bishop rather than my own. What am I saying? Has not

Thy eternal Word, O my Lord, had its effect and accomplishment in me?

Man speaks as man; but when we behold things in the Lord, we see them

in another light. Yes, my Lord, Thy design was to give Geneva not to my

cares, words or works, but to my sufferings; for the more I see things

appear hopeless, the more do I hope for the conversion of that city by

a way known to Thee only.

Father La Combe has told me since, that he had a strong impulse to

write to me, not to engage with the New Catholics. He believed it not

to be the will of the Lord concerning me; but he omitted doing it. As

to my director, M. Bertot, he died four months before my departure. I

had some intimations of his death, and it seemed as if he bequeathed me

a portion of his spirit to help his children.

I was seized with a fear, that the check I had felt, at giving so

largely in favor of the New Catholics, what I had designed for Geneva,

was a stratagem of nature, which does not love to be stripped. I wrote

to Sister Garnier to get a contract drawn up according to my first

memorial. God permitted me to commit this fault, to make me the more

sensible of His protection over me.

PART TWO

CHAPTER 1

I went off, in a strange renunciation, and in great simplicity,

scarcely able to render the reason why I should in such a manner quit

my family, which I most tenderly love, being without any positive

assurance, yet hoping even against hope itself. I went to the New

Catholics at Paris, where Providence wrought wonders to conceal me.

They sent for the notary, who had drawn up the contract of engagement.

When he read it to me, I felt such a repugnance to it, that I could not

bear to hear it to the end, much less sign it. The notary wondered and

much more so when Sister Garnier came in, and told him, that there

needed no contract of engagement. I was enabled through divine

assistance, to put my affairs in very good order, and to write sundry

letters by the inspiration of the Spirit of God, and not by my own.

This was what I had never experienced before. It was given me at that

time only as a beginning, and has since been granted me much more

perfectly.

I had two domestics, whom it was very difficult for me to discharge, as

I did not think to take them with me. If I had left them, they would

have told of my departure; and I should have been sent after. I was

when it became known. But God so ordered it that they were willing to

follow me. They were of no use to me, and soon after turned into

France. I took with me only my daughter, and two maids to serve us

both. We set off in a boat upon the river, though I had taken places in

the stage-coach, in order that, if they searched for me in the coach,

they might not find me. I went to Melun to wait for it there.

It was surprising that in this boat the child could not forbear making

crosses, employing a person to cut rushes for her to use for that

purpose. She then put around, and all over me, above three hundred of

them. I let her do it, and inwardly apprehended that it was not without

its meaning. I felt an interior certainty that I was going to meet with

crosses in abundance and that this child was sowing the cross for me to

reap it. Sister Garnier, who saw that they could not restrain her from

covering me with crosses, said to me, "What that child does appears to

be significant." Turning to the little girl, she said, "Give me some

crosses, too, my pretty pet." "No," she replied, "they are all for my

dear mother." Soon she gave her one to stop her importunity, then

continued putting more on me; after which she desired some

river-flowers, which floated on the water, to be given her. Braiding a

garland she put it on my head, and said to me, "After the cross you

shall be crowned." I admired all this in silence, and offered myself up

to the pure love of God, as a victim, free and willing to be sacrificed

to Him.

Some time before my departure, a particular friend, a true servant of

God, related to me a vision she had respecting me. "She saw my heart

surrounded with thorns; that our Lord appeared in it well pleased;

that, though the thorns seemed likely to tear it, yet, instead of doing

that, they only rendered it fairer, and our Lord's approbation the

stronger."

At Corbeil, (a little town on the river Seine, sixteen miles south of

Paris,) I met with the priest whom God had first made use of so

powerfully to draw me to His love. He approved of my design to leave

all for the Lord; but he thought I should not be well suited with the

New Catholics. He told me some things about them, to show that our

leadings were incompatible. He cautioned me not to let them know that I

walked in the inward path. If I did, I must expect nothing but

persecution from them. But it is in vain to contrive to hide, when God

sees it best for us to suffer, and when our wills are utterly resigned

to Him, and totally passed into His.

While at Paris I gave the New Catholics all the money I had. I reserved

not to myself a single penny, rejoicing to be poor after the example of

Jesus Christ. I brought from home nine thousand livres. As by my

donation I had reserved nothing to myself and by a contract lent them

six thousand; this six thousand has returned to my children but none of

it to me. That gives me no trouble; poverty, thus procured, constitutes

my riches. The rest I gave entirely to the sisters that were with us,

as well to supply their traveling expenses, for the purchase of

furniture. I did not reserve so much as my linen for my own use,

putting it in the common fund. I had neither a locked coffer, nor

purse. I had brought but little linen for fear of mistrust. In wanting

to carry off clothes I should have been discovered. My persecutors did

not fail to report that I had brought great sums from home, which I had

imprudently expended, and given to the friends of Father La Combe.

False as I had not a penny. On my arrival at Annecy a poor man was

asking alms. I, having nothing else, gave him the buttons from my

sleeves. At another time I gave a poor man a little plain ring, in the

name of Jesus Christ. I had worn it as a token of marriage with Him.

We joined the flying stage at Melun where I left Sister Garnier. I went

on with the other sisters with whom I had no acquaintance. The

carriages were very fatiguing; I got no sleep through so long a

journey. My daughter, a very tender child, only five years of age, got

scarcely any. We bore great fatigue without falling sick by the way. My

child had not an hour's uneasiness, although she was only three hours

in bed every night. At another time half this fatigue, or even the want

of rest, would have thrown me into a fit of sickness. God only knows

both the sacrifices which He induced me to make, and the joy of my

heart in offering up everything to Him. Had I kingdoms and empires, I

think I would yield them up with still more joy, to give Him the higher

marks of my love.

As soon as we arrived at the inn, I went to church and stayed there

till dinner time. In the coach, my divine Lord communed with me, and in

me, in a manner which the others could not comprehend, indeed not

perceive. The cheerfulness I showed in the greatest dangers encouraged

them. I even sang hymns of joy at finding myself disengaged from the

riches, honors and entanglements of the world. God in such a manner

protected us. He seemed to be to us "a pillar of fire by night, and a

pillar of a cloud by day." We passed over a very dangerous spot between

Lyons and Chamberry. Our carriage broke as we were coming out of it.

Had it happened a little sooner, we would have perished.

We arrived at Annecy on Magdalene's eve, 1681. On Magdalene's day the

Bishop of Geneva performed divine service for us, at the tomb of St.

Francis de Sales. There I renewed my spiritual marriage with my

Redeemer, as I did every year on this day. There also I felt a sweet

remembrance of that saint, with whom our Lord gives me a singular

union. I say union, for it appears to me that the soul in God is united

with saints, the more so in proportion as they are conformable to Him.

It is a union which it pleases God sometimes to revive after death, and

awaken in the soul for His own glory. At such times departed saints are

rendered more intimately present to that soul in God; and this revival

is as it were an holy intercourse of friend with friend, in Him who

unites them all in one immortal tie.

That day we left Annecy, and on the next went to prayers at Geneva. I

had much joy at the communion. It seemed to me as if God more

powerfully united me to Himself. There I prayed to Him for the

conversion of that great people. That evening we arrived late at Gex,

where we found only bare walls. The Bishop of Geneva had assured me

that the house was furnished; undoubtedly he believed it to be. We

lodged at the house of the sisters of charity, who were so kind as to

give us their beds.

I was in great pain of mind for my daughter, who visibly lost weight. I

had a strong desire to place her with the Ursulines at Tonon. My heart

was so affected on her behalf, that I could not forbear weeping in

secret for her. Next day I said, "I would take my daughter to Tonon,

and leave her there, till I should see how we might be accommodated."

They opposed it strongly, after a manner which seemed very hard-hearted

as well as ungrateful, seeing she was a skeleton. I looked upon the

child as a victim whom I had imprudently sacrificed. I wrote to Father

La Combe, entreating him to come and see me, to consult together about

it. I thought I could not in conscience keep her in this place any

longer. Several days passed without my having any answer. In the

meantime I became resigned to the will of God, whether to have succor

or not.

CHAPTER 2

Our Lord took pity on the lamentable condition of my daughter, and so

ordered it, that the Bishop of Geneva wrote to Father La Combe, to come

as speedily as possible to see us, and to console us. As soon as I saw

that father, I was surprised to feel an interior grace, which I may

call communication; such as I had never had before with any person. It

seemed to me that an influence of grace came from him to me, through

the innermost of the soul; returned from me to him, in such a way that

he felt the same effect. Like a tide of grace it caused a flux and

reflux, flowing on into the divine and invisible ocean. This is a pure

and holy union, which God alone operates, and which has still

subsisted, and even increased. It is an union exempt from all weakness,

and from all self-interest. It causes those who are blessed with it to

rejoice in beholding themselves, as well as those beloved, laden with

crosses and afflictions--an union which has no need of the presence of

the body. At certain times absence makes not more absent, nor presence

more present; a union unknown to men, but such as are come to

experience it. It can never be experienced but between such souls as

are united to God. As I never before felt a union of this sort with any

one, it then appeared to me quite new. I had no doubt of its being from

God; so far from turning the mind from Him, it tended to draw it more

deeply into Him. It dissipated all my pains, and established me in the

most profound peace.

God gave him at first much openness of mind toward me. He related to me

the mercies God had shown him, and several extraordinary things, which

gave me at first some fear. I suspected some illusion, especially in

such things as flatter in regard to the future; little imagining that

God would make use of me to draw him from this state and bring him into

that naked faith. But the grace, which flowed from Him into my soul,

recovered me from that fear. I saw that it was joined with

extraordinary humility. Far from being elevated with the gifts which

God had liberally conferred upon him, or with his own profound

learning, no person could have a lower opinion of himself than he had.

He told me as to my daughter, it would be best for me to take her to

Tonon, where he thought she would be very well situated. As to myself,

after I had mentioned to him my dislike to the manner of life of the

New Catholics, he told me, that he did not think it would be my proper

place to be long with them. It would be best for me to stay there, free

from all engagements, till God, by the guidance of His Providence,

should make known to me how he would dispose of me, and draw my mind to

the place whither he would have me remove. I had already begun to awake

regularly at midnight, in order to pray. I awoke with these words

suddenly put in my mind, "It is written of me, I will do thy will, O my

God." This was accompanied with the most pure, penetrating, and

powerful communication of grace that I had ever experienced. Though the

state of my soul was already permanent in newness of life; yet this new

life was not in that immutability in which it has been since. It was a

beginning life and a rising day, which goes on increasing unto the full

meridian; a day never followed by night; a life which fears death no

more, not even in death itself; because he who has suffered the first

death, shall no more be hurt of the second. From midnight I continued

on my knees, till four o'clock in the morning, in prayer, in a sweet

intercourse with God, and did the same also the night following.

The next day, after prayers, Father La Combe told me, that he had a

very great certainty, that I was a stone which God designed for the

foundation of some great building. What that building was he knew no

more than I. After whatever manner then it is to be, whether His divine

Majesty will make use of me in this life, for some design known to

himself only, or will make me one of the stones of the new and heavenly

Jerusalem, it seems to me that such stone cannot be polished, but by

the strokes of the hammer. Our Lord has given to this soul of mine the

qualities of the stone, firmness, resignation, insensibility, and power

to endure hardness under the operations of His hand.

I carried my little daughter to the Ursulines at Tonon. That child took

a great fondness for Father La Combe, saying, "He is a good father, one

from God." Here I found a hermit, whom they called Anselm. He was a

person of the most extraordinary sanctity that had appeared for some

time. He was from Geneva; God had miraculously drawn him from thence,

at twelve years of age. He had at nineteen years of age taken the habit

of hermit of St. Augustine. He and another lived alone in a little

hermitage, where they saw nobody but such as came to visit their

chapel. He had lived twelve years in this hut, never eating anything

but pulse with salt, and sometimes oil. Three times a week he lived on

bread and water. He never drank wine, and generally took but one meal

in twenty-four hours. He wore for a shirt a coarse hair cloth, and

lodged on the bare ground. He lived in a continual state of prayer, and

in the greatest humility. God had done by him many signal miracles.

This good hermit had a great sense of the designs of God on Father La

Combe and me. But God showed him at the same time that strange crosses

were preparing for us both; that we were both destined for the aid of

souls. I did not find, as I expected, any suitable place for my

daughter at Tonon. I thought myself like Abraham, when going to

sacrifice his son. Father La Combe said, "Welcome, daughter of

Abraham!" I found little encouragement to leave her and could not keep

her with myself, because we had no room. The little girls, whom they

took to make Catholics, were all mixed and had contracted habits as

were pernicious. To leave her there I thought not right. The language

of the country, where scarce anyone understood French, and the food,

which she could not take, being far different from ours, were great

hardships. All my tenderness for her was awakened, and I looked on

myself as her destroyer. I experienced what Hagar suffered when she put

away her son Ishmael in the desert that she might not be forced to see

him perish. I thought that even if I had ventured to expose myself, I

ought at least to have spared my daughter. The loss of her education,

even of her life, appeared to me inevitable. Everything looked dark in

regard to her.

With her natural disposition and fine qualities, she might have

attracted admiration, if educated in France, and been likely to have

such offers of marriage, as she could never hope to meet with in this

poor country; in which, if she should recover, she would never be

likely to be fit for anything. Here she could eat nothing of what was

offered her. All her subsistence was a little unpleasant and

disagreeable broth, which I forced her to take against her will. I

seemed like a second Abraham, holding the knife over her to destroy

her. Our Lord would have me make a sacrifice to Him, without any

consolation, and plunged in sorrow, night was the time in which I gave

vent to it. He made me see, on one side the grief of her grandmother,

if she should hear of her death, which she would impute to my taking

the child away from her; the great reproach, it would be accounted

among all the family. The gifts of nature she was endowed with were now

like pointed darts which pierced me. I believe that God so ordered it

to purify me from too human an attachment still in me. After I returned

from the Ursulines at Tonon, they changed her manner of diet, and gave

her what was suitable; in a short time she recovered.

CHAPTER 3

As soon as it was known in France that I was gone there was a general

outcry. Father de la Mothe wrote to me, that all persons of learning

and of piety united in censuring me. To alarm me still more, he

informed me that my mother-in-law, with whom I had entrusted my younger

son and my children's substance, was fallen into a state of childhood.

This, however, was false.

I answered all these fearful letters as the Spirit dictated. My answers

were thought very just, and those violent exclamations were soon

changed into applauses. Father La Mothe appeared to change his censures

into esteem; but it did not last. Self interest threw him back again;

being disappointed in his hopes of a pension, which he expected I would

have settled on him. Sister Garnier, whatever was her reason, changed

and declared against me.

I both ate and slept little. The food which was given us was putrid and

full of worms, by reason of the great heat of the weather, also being

kept too long. What I should have formerly beheld with the greatest

abhorrence, now became my only nourishment. Yet everything was rendered

easy to me. In God I found, without increase, everything which I had

lost for Him. That spirit, which I once thought I had lost in a strange

stupidity, was restored to me with inconceivable advantages. I was

astonished at myself. I found there was nothing which I was not fit for

or in which I did not succeed. Those who observed said that I had a

prodigious capacity. I well knew that I had but meager capabilities,

but that in God my spirit had received a quality which it had never had

before. I thought I experienced something of the state which the

apostles were in, after they had received the Holy Ghost. I knew, I

comprehended, I understood, I was enabled to do everything necessary. I

had every sort of good thing and no want of anything. When Jesus

Christ, the eternal wisdom, is formed in the soul, after the death of

the first Adam, it finds in Him all good things communicated to it.

Sometime after my arrival at Gex, the Bishop of Geneva came to see us.

He was so clearly convinced, and so much affected, that he could not

forbear expressing it. He opened his heart to me on what God had

required of him. He confessed to me his own deviations and

infidelities. Every time when I spoke to him he entered into what I

said, and acknowledged it to be the truth. Indeed it was the Spirit of

truth which inspired me to speak to him, without which I should be only

a mere simpleton. Yet as soon as those persons spoke to him, who sought

for pre-eminence, and who could not suffer any good but what came from

themselves, he was so weak as to be imposed on with impressions against

the truth. This weakness has hindered him from doing all the good which

otherwise he might have done.

After I had spoken to him, he said that he had it in his mind to give

me Father La Combe for director; he was a man illuminated of God, who

well understood the inward path, and had a singular gift of pacifying

souls. Greatly was I rejoiced when the Bishop appointed him, seeing

thereby his authority united with the grace which already seemed to

have given him to me, by a union and effusion of supernatural life and

love. The fatigues I had, and watchings with my daughter, threw me into

a violent sickness attended with exquisite pain. The physicians judged

me in danger, yet the sisters of the house quite neglected me;

especially the stewardess. She was so penurious, that she did not give

me what was necessary to sustain life. I had not a penny to help myself

with, as I had reserved nothing to myself. Besides, they received all

the money which was remitted to me from France, which was very

considerable. I practiced poverty and was in necessity even among those

to whom I had given all. They wrote to Father La Combe, desiring him to

come to me, as I was so extremely ill. Hearing of my condition he was

so touched with compassion as to walk on foot all night. He traveled

not otherwise, endeavoring in that, as in everything else, to imitate

our Lord Jesus Christ.

As soon as he entered the house my pains abated; when he had prayed and

blessed me, laying his hand on my head, I was perfectly cured, to the

great astonishment of my physicians; who were not willing to

acknowledge the miracle.

These sisters advised me to return to my daughter. Father La Combe

returned with me. A violent storm arose on the Lake, which made me very

sick, and seemed likely to upset the boat. But the hand of Providence

remarkably appeared in our favor; so much so, that it was taken notice

of by the mariners and passengers. They looked upon Father La Combe as

a saint. We arrived at Tonon, where I found myself so perfectly

recovered, that, instead of making and using the remedies I had

proposed, I went into a retreat, and stayed twelve days. Here I made

vows of perpetual chastity, poverty and obedience, covenanting to obey

whatever I should believe to be the will of God also to obey the

church, and to honor Jesus Christ in such a manner as He pleased.

At this time I found that I had the perfect chastity of love to the

Lord, it being without any reserve, division, or view of interest.

Perfect poverty, by the total privation of everything that was mine,

both inwardly and outwardly. Perfect obedience to the will of the Lord,

submission to the church, and honor to Jesus Christ in loving Himself

only; the effect of which soon appeared. When by the loss of ourselves

we are passed into the Lord, our will is made one and the same with

that of the Lord, according to the prayer of Christ, "As thou Father

art in me, and I in thee, grant that they also may be one of us." John

17:21. Oh, but it is then that the will is rendered marvelous, both

because it is made the will of the Lord, which is the greatest of

miracles; also because it works wonders in Him. For as it is the Lord

who wills in the soul, that will has its effect. Scarcely has it willed

but the thing is done.

But some may say, Why then so many oppressions endured? Why do not

these souls, if they have such a power, set themselves free from them?

We answer that if they had any will to do anything of that sort,

against divine providence, that would be the will of flesh, or the will

of man, and not the will of God, John 1:13.

I rose generally at midnight, waking at the proper time; but if I wound

up my alarm-watch, then I used not to awake in time. I saw that the

Lord had the care of a father and a spouse over me. When I had any

indisposition, and my body wanted rest, He did not awake me; but at

such times I felt even in my sleep a singular possession of Him. Some

years have passed wherein I have had only a kind of half-sleep; but my

soul waked the more for the Lord, as sleep seemed to steal from it

every other attention. The Lord made it known also to many persons,

that He designed me for a mother of great people, but a people simple

and childlike. They took these intelligences in a literal sense and

thought it related to some institution or congregation. But it appeared

to me that the persons whom it would please the Lord that I should win

over to Him, and to whom I should be as a mother, through His goodness,

should have the same union of affection for me as children have for a

parent, but a union much deeper and stronger; giving me all that was

necessary for them, to bring them to walk in the way by which He would

lead them, as I shall show.

CHAPTER 4

I would willingly suppress what I am now about to write if anything of

it were my own, also on account of the difficulty of expressing myself

as because few souls are capable of understanding divine leadings which

are so little known, and so little comprehended. I have myself never

read of anything like it. I shall say something of the interior

dispositions I was then in, and I shall think my time well employed, if

it serves you who are willing to be of the number of my children; it

serves such as are already my children, to induce them to let God

glorify Himself in them after His manner, and not after their own. If

there be anything which they do not comprehend, let them die to

themselves. They will find it much easier to learn by experience than

from anything I could say; expression never equals experience.

After I had come out of the trying condition I have spoken of I found

it had purified my soul, instead of blackening it as I had feared. I

possessed God after a manner so pure, and so immense, as nothing else

could equal. In regard to thoughts or desires, all was so clean, so

naked, so lost in the divinity, that the soul had no selfish movement,

however plausible or delicate; both the powers of the mind and the very

senses being wonderfully purified. Sometimes I was surprised to find

that there appeared not one selfish thought. The imagination, formerly

so restless, now no more troubled me. I had no more perplexity or

uneasy reflections. The will, being perfectly dead to all its own

appetites, was become void of every human inclination, both natural and

spiritual, and only inclined to whatever God pleased, and to whatever

manner He pleased. This vastness or enlargedness, which is not bounded

by anything, however plain or simple it may be, increases every day. My

soul in partaking of the qualities of her Spouse seems also to partake

of His immensity. My prayer was in an openness and singleness

inconceivable. I was, as it were, borne up on high, out of myself. I

believe God was pleased to bless me with this experience. At the

beginning of the new life, He made me comprehend, for the good of other

souls, the simplicity and desirableness of this passage of the soul

into God.

When I went to confess, I felt such an immersion of the soul into Him,

that I could scarcely speak. This ascension of the spirit, wherein God

draws the soul so powerfully, not into its own inmost recess, but into

Himself, is not operated till after the death of self. The soul

actually comes out of itself to pass into its divine object. I call it

death, that is to say, a passage from one thing to another. It is truly

a happy passover for the soul, and its passage into the promised land.

The spirit which is created to be united to its divine Origin, has so

powerful a tendency to Him, that if it were not stopped by a continual

miracle, its moving quality would cause the body to be drawn after it

by reason of its impetuosity and noble assent. But God has given it a

terrestrial body to serve for a counterpoise. This spirit then, created

to be united to its Origin, without any medium or interstice, feeling

itself drawn by its divine object, tends to it with an extreme

violence; in such sort that God, suspending for sometime the power

which the body has to hold back the spirit, it follows with ardency.

When it is not sufficiently purified to pass into God, it gradually

returns to itself; as the body resumes its own quality, it turns to the

earth. The saints who have been the most perfect have advanced to that

degree, as to have nothing of all this. Some have lost it toward the

end of their lives, becoming single and pure as the others, because

they then had in reality and permanence what they had at first only as

transient fruitions, in the time of the prevalence or dominion of the

body. It is certain then that the soul, by death to itself, passes into

its divine Object. This is what I then experienced. I found, the

farther I went, the more my spirit was lost in its Sovereign, who

attracted it more and more to Himself. He was pleased at first that I

should know this for the sake of others and not for myself. Indeed He

drew my soul more and more into Himself, till it lost itself entirely

out of sight, and could perceive itself no more. It seemed at first to

pass into Him. As one sees a river pass into the ocean, lose itself in

it, its water for a time distinguished from that of the sea, till it

gradually becomes transformed into the same sea, and possesses all its

qualities; so was my soul lost in God, who communicated to it His

qualities, having drawn it out of all that it had of its own. Its life

is an inconceivable innocence, not known or comprehended of those who

are still shut up in themselves or only live for themselves.

The joy which such a soul possesses in its God is so great, that it

experiences the truth of those words of the royal prophet, "All they

who are in thee, O Lord, are like persons ravished with joy." To such a

soul the words of our Lord seem to be addressed, "Your joy no man shall

take from you." John 16:22. It is as it were plunged in a river of

peace. Its prayer is continual. Nothing can hinder it from praying to

God, or from loving Him. It amply verifies these words in the

Canticles, "I sleep but my heart waketh;" for it finds that even sleep

itself does not hinder it from praying. Oh, unutterable happiness! Who

could ever have thought that a soul, which seemed to be in the utmost

misery, should ever find a happiness equal to this? Oh, happy poverty,

happy loss, happy nothingness, which gives no less than God Himself in

His own immensity, no more circumscribed to the limited manner of the

creature, but always drawing it out of that, to plunge it wholly into

His own divine essence.

Then the soul knows that all the states of self-pleasing visions,

openings, ecstasies and raptures, are rather obstacles; that they do

not serve this state which is far above them; because the state which

has supports, has pain to lose them; yet cannot arrive at this without

such loss. In this are verified the words of an experienced saint;

"When I would," says he, "possess nothing through self-love, everything

was given me without going after it." Oh, happy dying of the grain of

wheat, which makes it produce an hundredfold! The soul is then so

passive, so equally disposed to receive from the hand of God either

good or evil, as is astonishing. It receives both the one and the other

without any selfish emotions, letting them flow and be lost as they

come. They pass away as if they did not touch.

After I finished my retreat with the Ursulines at Tonon, I returned

through Geneva and, having found no other means of conveyance, the

French resident lent me a horse. As I knew not how to ride I made some

difficulty of doing it; but as he assured me that it was a very quiet

horse, I ventured to mount. There was a sort of a smith, who looking at

me with a wild haggard look, struck the horse a blow on the back, just

as I had got upon him, which made him give a leap. He threw me on the

ground with such force that they thought I was killed. I fell on my

temple. My cheekbone and two of my teeth were broken. I was supported

by an invisible hand and in a little time I mounted as well as I could

on another horse and had a man by my side to keep me up.

My relations left me in peace at Gex. They had heard at Paris of my

miraculous cure; it made a great noise there. Many persons in

reputation for sanctity then wrote to me. I received letters from

Mademoiselle De Lamoignon, and another young lady, who was so moved

with my answer, that she sent me a hundred pistoles for our house, and

let me know besides that, when we wanted money, I had only to write to

her; and that she would send me all I could desire. They talked in

Paris of printing an account of the sacrifice I had made, and inserting

in it the miracle of my sudden recovery. I don't know what prevented

it; but such is the inconstancy of the creature, that this journey,

which drew upon me at that time so much applause, has served for a

pretext for the strange condemnation which has since passed upon me.

CHAPTER 5

My near relations did not signify any eager desire for my return. The

first thing they proposed to me, a month after my arrival at Gex, was

not only to give up my guardianship, but to make over all my estate to

my children and to reserve an annuity to myself. This proposition,

coming from people who regarded nothing but their own interest, to some

might have appeared very unpleasing; but it was in no wise so to me. I

had not any friend to advise with. I knew not anyone whom I could

consult about the manner of executing the thing, as I was quite free

and willing to do it. It appeared to me that I had now the means of

accomplishing the extreme desire I had of being conformable to Jesus

Christ, poor, naked, and stripped of all. They sent me an article to

execute, which had been drawn under their inspection, and I innocently

signed it, not perceiving some clauses which were inserted therein. It

expressed that, when my children should die, I should inherit nothing

of my own estate, but that it should revolve to my kindred. There were

many other things, which appeared to be equally to my disadvantage.

Though what I had reserved to myself was sufficient to support me in

this place; yet it was scarcely enough to do so in some other places. I

then gave up my estate with more joy, for being thereby conformed to

Jesus Christ, than they could have who asked it from me. It is what I

have never repented of, nor had any uneasiness about. What pleasure to

lose all for the Lord! The love of poverty, thus contracted, is the

kingdom of tranquillity.

I forgot to mention that toward the end of my miserable state of

privation, when just ready to enter into newness of life, our Lord

illuminated me so clearly to see that the exterior crosses came from

Him, that I could not harbor any resentment against the persons who

procured me them. On the contrary, I felt the tenderness of compassion

for them, and had more pain for those afflictions which I innocently

caused to them, than for any which they had heaped upon me. I saw that

these persons feared the Lord too much to oppress me as they did, had

they known it. I saw His hand in it, and I felt the pain which they

suffered, through the contrariety of their humors. It is hard to

conceive the tenderness which the Lord gave me for them, and the desire

which I have had, with the utmost sincerity, to procure them every sort

of advantage.

After the accident which befell me (fall from the horse) from which I

soon wonderfully recovered, the Devil began to declare himself more

openly mine enemy, to break loose and become outrageous. One night,

when I least thought of it, something very monstrous and frightful

presented itself. It seemed a kind face, which was seen by a glimmering

blueish light. I don't know whether the flame itself composed that

horrible face or appearance; for it was so mixed and passed by so

rapidly, that I could not discern it. My soul rested in its calm

situation and assurance, and it appeared no more after that manner. As

I arose at midnight to pray, I heard frightful noises in my chamber and

after I had lain down they were still worse. My bed often shook for a

quarter of an hour at a time, and the sashes were all burst. Every

morning while this continued, they were found shattered and torn, yet I

felt no fear. I arose and lighted my wax candle at a lamp which I kept

in my room, because I had taken the office of sacristan and the care of

waking the sisters at the hour they were to rise, without having once

failed in it for my indispositions, ever being the first in all the

observances. I made use of my little light to look all over the room

and at the sashes, at the very time the noise was strongest. As he saw

that I was afraid of nothing, he left off all on a sudden, and attacked

me no more in person. But he stirred up men against me, and that

succeeded far better with him; for he found them disposed to do what he

prompted them to, zealously, inasmuch as they counted it a good thing

to do me the worst of injuries.

One of the sisters whom I had brought with me, a very beautiful girl,

contracted an intimacy with an ecclesiastic, who had authority in this

place. At first he inspired her with an aversion for me, being well

assured that if she placed confidence in me, I should advise her not to

suffer his visits so frequently. She was undertaking a religious

retreat. That ecclesiastic was desirous to induce her to make it, in

order to gain her entire confidence, which would have served as a cloak

to his frequent visits. The Bishop of Geneva had given Father La Combe

for director to our house. As he was going to cause retreats to be

made, I desired her to wait for him. As I had gained some share in her

esteem, she submitted even against her inclination, which was to have

made it under this ecclesiastic. I began to talk to her on the subject

of inward prayer, and drew her into the practice of this duty. Our Lord

gave such a blessing thereto, that this girl gave herself to God in

right earnest, and with her whole heart and the retreat completely won

her over. She then became more reserved, and on her guard, toward this

ecclesiastic, which exceedingly vexed him. It enraged him both against

Father La Combe and me. This proved the source of the persecutions

which afterward befell me. The noise in my chamber, which may have been

traced to him, ended as these commenced.

This ecclesiastic began to talk privately of me with much contempt. I

knew it, but took no notice. There came a certain friar to see him, who

mortally hated Father La Combe, on account of his regularity. These

combined together to force me to quit the house, that they might become

masters of it. All the means they could devise they used for that

purpose.

My manner of life was such, that in the house I did not meddle in

affairs at all, leaving the sisters to dispose of the temporalities as

they pleased. Soon after my entrance into it I received eighteen

hundred livres, which a lady, a friend of mine, lent me to complete our

furniture, which I had repaid her at my late giving up of my estate.

This sum they received, as well as what I had before given them. I

sometimes spoke a little to those who retired thither to become

Catholics. Our Lord favored with so much benediction what I said to

them, that some, whom they knew not before what to make of, became

sensible, solid women, and exemplary in piety.

I saw crosses in abundance likely to fall to my lot. At the same time

these words came, "Who for the joy that was set before him endured the

cross." Heb. 12:2. I prostrated myself for a long time with my face on

the ground, earnestly desiring to receive all thy strokes. Oh, Thou who

spared not thine own son! Thou couldst find none but Him worthy of

Thee, and thou still findest in Him hearts proper for thee.

A few days after my arrival at Gex, I saw in a sacred and mysterious

dream (for as such I very well distinguished it) Father La Combe

fastened up to an enormous cross, stripped in like manner as they paint

our Saviour. I saw around it a frightful crowd, which covered me with

confusion, and threw back on me the ignominy of his punishment. He

seemed to have most pain, but I more reproaches than he. I have since

beheld this fully accomplished.

The ecclesiastic won over to his party one of our sisters, who was the

house-steward and soon after the prioress. I was very delicate, the

good inclination which I had did not give strength to my body. I had

two maids to serve me; yet, as the community had need of one of them

for their cook, and the other to attend the door and other occasions, I

gave them up, not thinking but they would allow them to serve me

sometimes. Besides this, I let them still receive all my income, they

having had my first half of this year's annuity. Yet they would not

permit either of my maid-servants, to do anything for me. By my office

of sacristan I was obliged to sweep the church, which was large, and

they would not let anyone help me. I have several times fainted over

the broom and have been forced to rest in corners. This obliged me to

beg them, that they would suffer it sometimes to be swept by some of

the strong country girls, New Catholics, to which at last they had the

charity to consent. What most embarrassed me was that I never had

washed. I was now obliged to wash all the vestry linen. I took one of

my maids to help me, because in attempting it I had done up the linen

most awkwardly. These sisters pulled her by the arms out of my chamber,

telling her she should do her own work. I let it quietly pass, without

making any objection. The other good sister, the girl I just mentioned,

grew more and more fervent. By the practice of prayer in her dedication

of herself to the Lord she became more and more tender in her sympathy

with me. It irritated this ecclesiastic. After all his impotent

attempts here, he went off to Annecy, in order to sow discord, and to

effect more mischief to Father La Combe.

CHAPTER 6

He went directly to the Bishop of Geneva, who till then had manifested

much esteem and kindness for me. He persuaded him, that it would be

proper to secure me to that house, to oblige me to give up to it the

annual income I had reserved to myself; to engage me thereto, by making

me prioress. He had gained such an ascendancy over the Bishop, that the

people in the country called him the Little Bishop. He drew him to

enter heartily and with zeal into this proposition, and to resolve to

bring it about whatever it should cost.

The ecclesiastic, having so far carried his point, and being swelled

with his success, no longer kept any measures in regard to me. He began

with causing all the letters which I sent, and those which were

directed to me, to be stopped. That was in order to have it in his

power to make what impressions he pleased on the minds of others, and

that I should neither be able to know it, nor to defend myself, nor to

give or send to my friends any account of the manner in which I was

treated. One of the maids I had brought wanted to return. She could

have no rest in this place, the other that remained was infirm, too

much taken up by others to help me in anything. As Father La Combe was

soon to come, I thought he would soften the violent spirit of this man,

and that he would give me proper advice.

In the meantime they proposed to me the engagement, and the post of

prioress. I answered, that as to the engagement it was impossible for

me, since my vocation was elsewhere. And I could not regularly be the

prioress, till after passing through the novitiate, in which they had

all served two years before their being engaged. When I should have

done as much, I should see how God would inspire me. The prioress

replied quite tartly, that if I would ever leave them it were best for

me to do it immediately. Yet I did not offer to retire, but continued

still to act as usual. I saw the sky gradually thickening and storms

gathering on every side. The prioress then affected a milder air. She

assured me, that she had a desire, as well as I, to go to Geneva; that

I should not engage, but only promise her to take her with me, if I

went thither. She pretended to place a great confidence in me, and

professed a high esteem for me. As I am very free, and have nothing but

uprightness, I let her know that I had no attraction for the manner of

life of the New Catholics, by reason of the intrigues from without.

Several things did not please me, because I wanted them to be upright

in everything. She signified that she did not consent to such things,

but because that ecclesiastic told her they were necessary to give the

house a credit in distant parts and to draw charities from Paris. I

answered that if we walked uprightly God would never fail us. He would

sooner do miracles for us. I remarked to her that when, instead of

sincerity, they had recourse to artifice, charity grew cold, and kept

herself shut up. It is God alone who inspires charity; how, then, is it

to be drawn by disguises?

Soon after, Father La Combe came about the retreats. This was the third

and last time that he came to Gex. This prioress, after she had been

tampering a good deal with me, having written him a long letter before

his coming, and received his answer, which she showed me, now went to

ask him whether she would one day be united to me at Geneva. He

answered with his usual uprightness, "Our Lord has made it known to me

that you shall never be established at Geneva." Soon after she died.

When he had uttered this declaration, she appeared enraged against both

him and me. She went directly to that ecclesiastic, who was in a room

with the house-steward; and they took their measures together, to

oblige me either to engage or retire. They thought that I would sooner

engage than retire, and they watched my letters.

With a design to lay snares for him, he requested Father La Combe to

preach. He did on this text "The King's daughter is beautiful within."

That ecclesiastic, who was present with his confidant, said that it was

preached against him, and was full of errors. He drew up eight

propositions, and inserted in them what the other had not preached,

adjusting them as maliciously as ever he could, then sent them to one

of his friends in Rome, to get them examined by the Sacred

Congregation, and by the Inquisition. Though he had very illy digested

them, at Rome they were pronounced good. That greatly disappointed and

vexed him. After having been treated in this manner, and opprobriously

reviled by him in the most offensive terms, the Father, with much

mildness and humility, told him that he was going to Annecy about some

affairs of the convent. If he had anything to write to the Bishop of

Geneva, he would take care of his letter. He then desired him to wait

awhile, as he was going to write. The good Father had the patience to

wait above three hours, without hearing from him; though he had treated

him exceedingly ill, so far as to snatch out of his hands a letter I

had given him for that worthy hermit I have mentioned. Hearing he was

not gone, but was still in the church, I went to him, and begged him to

send to see if the other's packet was ready. The day was so far gone

that he would be obliged to lodge by the way. When the messenger

arrived, he found a servant of the ecclesiastic on horseback, ordered

to go at full speed, to be at Annecy before the Father. He then

returned an answer, that he had no letters to send by him. This was so

contrived, that he might gain time to prepossess the Bishop for his

purposes. Father La Combe then set off for Annecy, and on his arrival

found the Bishop prepossessed, and in an ill humor. This was the

substance of the discourse.

BISHOP--You must absolutely engage this lady to give what she has to

the house at Gex, and make her the prioress of it.

F. LA COMBE--My lord, you know what she has told you herself of her

vocation, both at Paris and in this country. I therefore do not believe

that she will engage; nor is there any likelihood that, after quitting

her all, in the hope of entering Geneva, she should engage elsewhere,

and thereby put it out of her power to accomplish the designs of God in

regard to her. She has offered to stay with those sisters as a boarder.

If they are willing to keep her as such, she will remain with them; if

not, she is resolved to retire into some convent, till God shall

dispose of her otherwise.

BISHOP--I know all that; but I likewise know that she is so very

obedient, that, if you order her, she will assuredly do it.

F. LA COMBE--It is for that reason, my lord, that one ought to be very

cautious in the commands which they lay on her. Can I induce a foreign

lady, who, for all her subsistence, has nothing but a small pittance

she has reserved to herself, to give that up in favor of a house which

is not yet established, and perhaps never will be? If the house should

happen to fail, or be no longer of use, what shall that lady live on?

Shall she go to the hospital? And indeed this house will not long be of

any use, since there are no Protestants in any part of France near it.

BISHOP--These reasons are good for nothing. If you do not make her do

what I have said, I will degrade and suspend you.

This manner of speaking somewhat surprised the Father. He well enough

understands the rules of suspension, which is not executed on such

things. He replied:

"My lord, I am ready, not only to suffer the suspension, but even

death, rather than do anything against my conscience." Having said

that, he retired.

He directly sent me this account by an express, to the end that I might

take proper measures. I had no other course to take but to retire into

a convent. I received a letter informing me that the nun to whom I had

entrusted my daughter had fallen sick, and desiring me to go to her for

some time. I showed this letter to the sisters of our house, telling

them that I had a mind to go; but if they ceased to persecute me, and

would leave Father La Combe in peace, I would return as soon as the

mistress of my daughter should be recovered. Instead of this, they

persecuted me more violently, wrote to Paris against me, stopped all my

letters, and sent libels against me around the country.

The day after my arrival at Tonon, Father La Combe set off for the

valley of Aoust, to preach there in Lent. He had come to take leave of

me, and told me that he should go from thence to Rome, and perhaps not

return, as his superiors might detain him there; that he was sorry to

leave me in a strange country, without succor, and persecuted of

everyone. I replied, "My father, that gives me no pain; I use the

creatures for God, and by His order. Through His mercy, I do very well

without them, when He withdraws them. I am very well contented never to

see you, and to abide under persecution, if such be His will." He said

he would go well satisfied to see me in such a disposition, and then

departed.

As soon as I got to the Ursulines, a very aged and pious priest, who

for twenty years past had not come out of his solitude, came to find

me. He told me that he had a vision relative to me; that he had seen a

woman in a boat on the lake; and that the Bishop of Geneva, with some

of his priests, exerted all their efforts to sink the boat she was in,

and to drown her; that he continued in this vision above two hours,

with pain of mind; that it seemed sometimes as if this woman were quite

drowned, as for some time she quite disappeared; but afterward she

appeared again, and ready to escape the danger, while the Bishop never

ceased to pursue her. This woman was always equally calm; but he never

saw her entirely free from him. From whence I conclude, added he, that

the Bishop will persecute you without intermission.

I had an intimate friend, wife of that governor of whom I have made

some mention. As she saw I had quitted everything for God, she had a

warm desire to follow me. With diligence did she dispose of all her

effects and settle her affairs in order to come to me; but when she

heard of the persecution, she was discouraged from coming to a place,

from whence she thought I should be obliged to retire. Soon after she

died.

CHAPTER 7

After Father La Combe was gone, the persecution raised against me

became more violent. But the Bishop of Geneva still showed me some

civilities, as well to try whether he could prevail on me to do what he

desired, as to sound out how matters passed in France, and to prejudice

the minds of the people there against me, preventing me from receiving

the letters sent me. The ecclesiastic and his family had twenty-two

intercepted letters, opened, on their table. There was one wherein was

sent me a power of attorney to sign, of immediate consequence. They

were obliged to put it under another cover, and send it to me. The

bishop wrote to Father La Mothe, and had no difficulty to draw him into

his party. He was displeased with me on two accounts. First, that I had

not settled on him a pension, as he expected, and as he told me very

roughly several times. Second, I did not take his advice in everything.

He at once declared against me. The bishop made him his confidant. It

was he who uttered and spread abroad the news about me. They imagined,

as was supposed, that I would annul the donation I had made, if I

returned; that, having the support of friends in France, I would find

the means of breaking it; but in that they were much mistaken. I had no

thought of loving anything but the poverty of Jesus Christ. For some

time yet, the Father acted with caution toward me. He wrote me some

letters, which he addressed to the Bishop of Geneva, and they agreed so

together, that he was the only person from whom I received any letters,

to which I returned very moving answers. He, instead of being touched

with them, became only more irritated against me.

The bishop continued to treat me with a show of respect; yet at the

same time he wrote to many persons in Paris, as did also the sisters of

the house, to all those persons of piety who had written letters to me,

to bias them as much as possible against me. To avoid the blame which

ought naturally to fall upon them for having so unworthily treated a

person who have given up everything to devote herself to the service of

that diocese. After I had done this, and was not in a condition to

return to France, they treated me extremely ill in every respect. There

was scarcely any kind of false or fabulous story, likely to gain any

credit, which they did not invent to cry me down. Beside my having no

way to make the truth known in France, our Lord inspired me with a

willingness to suffer everything, without justifying myself; so that in

my case nothing was heard but condemnation, without any vindication.

I was in this convent, and had seen Father La Combe no further than I

have mentioned; yet they did not cease to publish, both of him and me,

the most scandalous stories; as utterly false as anything could be, for

he was then a hundred and fifty leagues from me.

For some time I was ignorant of this. As I knew that all my letters

were kept from me, I ceased to wonder at receiving none. I lived in

this house with my little daughter in a sweet repose, which was a very

great favor of Providence. My daughter had forgotten her French, and

among the little girls from the mountains had contracted a wild look

and disagreeable manners. Her wit, sense and judgment, were indeed

surprising, and her disposition exceedingly good. There were only some

little fits of peevishness, which they had caused to arise in her,

through certain contrarieties out of season, caresses ill applied, and

for want of knowing the proper manner of education. But the Lord

provided in regard to her. During this time my mind was preserved calm

and resigned to God. Afterward that good sister almost continually

interrupted me; I answered everything she desired of me, both out of

condescension, and from a principle which I had to obey like a child.

When I was in my apartment, without any other director than our Lord by

His Spirit, as soon as one of my little children came to knock at my

door, he required me to admit the interruption. He showed me that it is

not the actions in themselves which please Him, but the constant ready

obedience to every discovery of His will, even in the minutest things,

with such a suppleness, as not to stick to anything, but still to turn

with Him at every call. My soul was then, I thought, like a leaf, or a

feather, which the wind moves what way soever it pleases and the Lord

never suffers a soul so dependent upon, and dedicated to Him, to be

deceived.

Most men appear to me very unjust, when they readily resign themselves

to another man, and look upon that as prudence. They confide in men who

are nothing, and boldly say, "Such a person cannot be deceived." But if

one speaks of a soul wholly resigned to God, which follows him

faithfully, they cry aloud, "That person is deceived with his

resignation." Oh, divine Love! Dost thou want either strength,

fidelity, love, or wisdom, to conduct those who trust in thee and who

are thy dearest children? I have seen men bold enough to say, "Follow

me, and you shall not be misled." How sadly are those men misled

themselves by their presumption! How much sooner should I go to him who

would be afraid of misleading me; who trusting neither to his learning

nor experience, would rely upon God only!

Our Lord showed me, in a dream, two ways by which souls steer their

course, under the figure of two drops of water. The one appeared to me

of an unparalleled beauty, brightness and purity; the other to have

also a brightness, yet full of little streaks; both good to quench

thirst; the former altogether pleasant, but the latter not so perfectly

agreeable. By the former is represented the way of pure and naked

faith, which pleases the Spouse much, it is so pure, so clear from all

self-love. The way of emotions or gifts is not so; yet it is that in

which many enlightened souls walk, and into which they had drawn Father

La Combe. But God showed me, that He had given him to me, to draw him

into one more pure and perfect. I spoke before the sisters, he being

present, of the way of faith, how much more glorious it was to God, and

advantageous for the soul, than all those gifts, emotions and

assurances, which ever cause us to live to self. This discouraged them

at first and him also. I saw they were pained, as they have confessed

to me since. I said no more of it at that time. But, as he is a person

of great humility, he bid me unfold what I had wanted to say to him. I

told him a part of my dream of the two drops of water; yet, he did not

then enter into what I said, the time for it being not yet come. When

he came to Gex, it was to make the retreats. I told him the

circumstances of a certain time past; he recollected that it was the

time of so extraordinary a touch with which the Lord favored him, that

he was quite overwhelmed with contrition. This gave him such an

interior renovation, that having retired to pray, in a very ardent

frame of mind, he was filled with joy, and seized with a powerful

emotion, which made him enter into what I had told him of the way of

faith. I give these things, as they happen to come to my remembrance,

without carrying them on in order.

After Easter, in 1682, the bishop came to Tonon. I had occasion to

speak to him, which when I had done, our Lord so pointed my words that

he appeared thoroughly convinced. But the persons who had influenced

him before returned. He then pressed me very much to return to Gex and

to take the place of Prioress. I gave him the reasons against it. I

then appealed to him, as a bishop, desiring him to take care to regard

nothing but God in what he should say to me. He was struck into a kind

of confusion; and then said to me, "Since you speak to me in such a

manner, I cannot advise you to it. It is not for us to go contrary to

our vocations; but do good, I pray you, to this house." I promised him

to do it. Having received my pension, I sent them a hundred pistoles,

with a design of doing the same as long as I should be in the diocese.

The bishop said to me, "I love Father La Combe. He is a true servant of

God and he has told me many things to which I was forced to assent for

I felt them in myself. But," added he, "when I say so, they tell me I

am mistaken, and that before the end of six months he will run mad." He

told me, "he approved of the nuns, which had been under the care and

instruction of Father La Combe, finding them to come up fully to what

he had heard of them." From thence I took occasion to tell him "that in

everything he ought to refer himself to his own breast, or to the

instructions there immediately received, and not to others." He agreed

to what I said, and acknowledged it to be right; yet no sooner was he

returned, than, so great was his weakness that he re-entered into his

former dispositions. He sent the same ecclesiastic to tell me that I

must engage myself at Gex; that it was his sentiment. I answered, that

I was determined to follow the counsel he had given me, when he had

spoken to me as from God, since now they made him speak only as man.

CHAPTER 8

My soul was in a state of entire resignation and very great content, in

the midst of such violent tempests. Those persons came to tell me a

hundred extravagant stories against Father La Combe. The more they said

to me to his disadvantage, the more esteem I felt for him. I answered

them, "Perhaps I may never see him again, but I shall ever be glad to

do him justice. It is not he who hinders me from engaging at Gex. It is

only because I know it to be none of my vocation." They asked me, "Who

could know that better than the bishop?" They further told me, "I was

under a deception, and my state was good for nothing." This gave me no

uneasiness, having referred to God the care of requiring, and of

exacting what He requires, and in whatever manner He demands it.

A soul in this state seeks nothing for itself, but all for God. Some

may say, "What, then, does this soul?" It leaves itself to be conducted

by God's providences and creatures. Outwardly, its life seems quite

common; inwardly, it is wholly resigned to the divine will. The more

everything appears adverse, and even desperate, the more calm it is, in

spite of the annoyance and pain of the senses and of the creatures,

which, for some time after the new life, raise some clouds and

obstructions, as I have already signified. But when the soul is

entirely passed into its original Being, all these things no more cause

any separation or partition. It finds no more of that impurity which

came from self-seeking, from a human manner of acting, from an

unguarded word, from any warm emotion or eagerness, which caused such a

mist, as it then could neither prevent nor remedy, having so often

experienced its own efforts, to be useless, and even hurtful, as they

did nothing else but sill more and more defile it. There is in such

case no other way or means of remedy, but in waiting till the Sun of

Righteousness dissipate those fogs. The whole work of purification

comes from God only. Afterward this conduct becomes natural; then the

soul can say with the royal prophet, "Though an host should encamp

against me, my heart shall not fear. Though war should rise up against

me, in him will I confide." For then, though assaulted on every side,

it continues fixed as a rock. Having no will but for what God sees meet

to order, be it what it may, high or low, great or small, sweet or

bitter, honor, wealth, life, or any other object, what can shake its

peace? It is true, our nature is so crafty that it worms itself through

everything; a selfish sight is like the basilisk's, it destroys.

Trial are suited to the state of the soul, whether conducted by lights,

gifts, or ecstasies, or by the entire destruction of self in the way of

naked faith. Both these states are found in the apostle Paul. He tells

us, "And lest I should be exalted above measure, through the abundance

of revelations, there was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the

messenger of Satan to buffet me." He prayed thrice, and it was said to

him, "My grace is sufficient for thee; for my strength is made perfect

in weakness." He proved also another state when he thus expressed

himself, "Oh, wretched man that I am! who shall deliver me from the

body of this death?" To which he replies, "I thank God, it is done

through Jesus Christ our Lord." It is He who conquers death in us

through His own life. Then there is no longer a sting in death, or

thorn in the flesh, capable of paining or hurting any more.

At first indeed, and for a pretty long time after, the soul sees that

nature wants to take some part with it in its trials; then its fidelity

consists in withholding it, without allowing it the least indulgence,

till it leaves everything to go on with God in purity as it comes from

Him. Till the soul be in this state, it always sullies, by its own

mixture, the operation of God; like those rivulets which contract the

corruption of the places they pass through, but, flowing in a pure

place, they then remain in the purity of their source. Unless God

through experience, makes known His guidance to the soul, it can never

comprehend it.

Oh, if souls had courage enough to resign themselves to the work of

purification, without having any weak and foolish pity on themselves,

what a noble, rapid and happy progress would they make! But few are

willing to lose the earth. If they advance some steps, as soon as the

sea is ruffled they are dejected; they cast anchor, and often desist

from the prosecution of the voyage. Such disorders doth selfish

interest and self-love occasion. It is of consequence not to look too

much at one's own state, not to lose courage, not to afford any

nourishment to self-love, which is so deep-rooted, that its empire is

not easily demolished. Often the idea which a man falsely conceives of

the greatness of his advancement in divine experience, makes him want

to be seen and known of men, and to wish to see the very same

perfection in others. He conceives too low ideas of others, and too

high of his own state. Then it becomes a pain to him to converse with

people too human; whereas, a soul truly mortified and resigned would

rather converse with the worst, by the order of Providence, than with

the best, of its own choice; wanting only to see or to speak to any as

Providence directs, knowing well that all beside, far from helping,

only hurt it, or at least prove very unfruitful to it.

What, then, renders this soul so perfectly content? It neither knows,

nor wants to know, anything but what God calls it to. Herein it enjoys

divine content, after a manner vast, immense, and independent of

exterior events; more satisfied in its humiliation, and in the

opposition of all creatures, by the order of Providence, than on the

throne of its own choice.

It is here that the apostolic life begins. But do all reach that state?

Very few, indeed, as far as I can comprehend. There is a way of lights,

gifts and graces, a holy life in which the creature appears all

admirable. As this life is more apparent, so it is more esteemed of

such, at least, as have not the purest light. The souls which walk in

the other path are often very little known, for a length of time, as it

was with Jesus Christ Himself, till the last years of His life. Oh, if

I could but express what I conceive of this state! But I can only

stammer about it.

CHAPTER 9

Being, as I have said, with the Ursulines at Tonon, after having spoken

to the Bishop of Geneva, and seeing how he changed, just as others

turned him, I wrote to him and to Father La Mothe; but all my efforts

were useless. The more I endeavored to accommodate matters, the more

the ecclesiastic tried to confound them, hence I ceased to meddle.