Though the wealth and power of Adalric had increased from year to year
till he was invested with the hereditary fief of the vast duchy of Alsace,
yet one blessing was denied him. He had no heir to whom he could transmit
his wealth and title, and this profoundly afflicted him. Berswinde, too,
sympathized in his disappointment, for it is especially natural for the
great and powerful to wish to perpetuate their name and race. They both
did all that devotion and confidence in God inspire holy souls to do. They
had recourse to fasts, pilgrimages, and generous alms. Often prostrate
together at the foot of the altar they shed floods of tears, and besought
the Lord to hear their ardent prayer. At length, after some years of
married life (in the year 657, or, as some say, 661), Berswinde gave
birth—not to the prince so ardently longed for and whose advent was
anticipated with the joy and prayers of the whole province—but to a little
blind girl....
Adalric’s happiness gave place to a profound despair, and the paternal
love he had felt in advance for his child was changed into violent hatred.
He broke forth into bitter plaints. “God is angry with us,” said he, “and
wishes to punish us for some grave transgression; for he has overwhelmed
us with an opprobrium without precedent among those of my race, and which
would forever tarnish the glory of my house, should the birth of this
child be known.”
Berswinde replied: “Beware, my lord, of abandoning yourself to anger and
despair. Remember that when the disciples of our Saviour questioned him
respecting the man who was blind from his birth, he said to them: ‘Neither
hath this man sinned, nor his parents; but that the works of God should be
made manifest in him.’ Let us not murmur, then, against the decrees of the
Almighty. Until now he hath loaded us with benefits. Let us bless his holy
name in affliction as well as in joy.”
This mild and wise reply gave Adalric no consolation. The unfortunate
duchess only succeeded in calming his excitement by consenting to keep the
birth of her daughter a secret, to have her reared away from home, and
never to mention her before her husband.
The duke thought he was satisfying the law of nature by permitting the
child to live, and, acting according to the requirements of his rank and
his honor, in condemning her to vegetate in obscurity and poverty. He had
it proclaimed, at the sound of the trumpet, in the town of Oberehnheim
that the duchess had given birth to a still‐born child.
But Berswinde, remembering that one of her former attendants, upon whose
attachment she could rely, was married and now living in the borough of
Scherwiller, sent for her secretly. She came at once, and, finding her
mistress profoundly afflicted and shedding bitter tears, pledged herself
to bring up the child. Berswinde’s courage revived at this, and, kissing
the babe, she placed it herself in the arms of her faithful follower,
commending it to her “dear Saviour the Lord Jesus, and to the Blessed
Virgin Mary.”
The nurse carried the child away, but in spite of Adalric’s care to
conceal from his subjects the birth of the princess—in spite of the
oblivion in which its second mother sought to bury its existence, it was
almost impossible to prevent such a secret from transpiring in time. Five
or six months had hardly elapsed when it was reported throughout the
country that there was a blind child of unknown origin at Scherwiller,
which evidently belonged to people of high rank, judging from the care it
received. Some one recalled that the woman who took care of this
mysterious child was formerly in Berswinde’s service, and noticed that its
age coincided with the time of the duchess’ illness. The nurse lent an
attentive ear to this gossip, and did not fail to report it to Berswinde.
The latter, fearing the report might reach Adalric’s ears, ordered her old
attendant to leave her home at once, and repair to the Convent of Baume in
Franche Comté, a few leagues from Besançon, where the child would be
readily received and brought up. Berswinde had two motives for preferring
this monastery to all other places of safety: she hoped its distance would
ensure the child’s safety, and the abbess was the sister of the duchess’
mother.
The Abbey of Baume was not then under any particular rule;(26) but prayer,
reading, the chanting of the Psalms, the observance of the evangelical
counsels, the mortification of the senses, and manual labor, continually
occupied the humble recluses who lived there.
The young exile arrived safely at this peaceful asylum. She lived there
tranquilly, far from the tumult of the world, and received an education
fitted for developing the treasures of grace with which her soul was
enriched. Her destiny was evident almost from her cradle. The names
consecrated by religion were the first to strike her ears and for her
tongue to utter, and her first language was that of prayer. Her pious
aunt, and all who surrounded her, only spoke to her of holy things, to
which she lent a surprising attention, as if interiorly enlightened
respecting divine truths. Her mind was precocious and clear, and her
memory extraordinary. She understood the duties of a Christian better at
the age of four or five than many grown‐up persons.
It was thus, away from the world, that the daughter of Adalric became from
childhood the model of piety, drawing pure instructions, as from an
inexhaustible source, from the noble superior of Baume.