In spite of her cruel exile, Odile had for a long time felt an ardent
desire to behold her parents, at least once, and this feeling became
stronger after the death of her nurse, the only tie that recalled her
native land. She did not dream of being restored to her rank, or of
exchanging her peaceful life for the bustle of her father’s court. She
only wished to testify her love for her parents, and to be loved by them.
She had been told that Count Hugo was the most noble of Adalric’s four
sons. He was universally considered the handsomest and most accomplished
prince of his time. His illustrious birth was his least recommendation: he
was prudent and generous, and animated by that lofty courage and goodness
of heart so becoming to youth. Odile wrote to him, entrusting the letter,
carefully wrapped in a piece of scarlet stuff, to a pilgrim. Hugo, charmed
with the letter and, unlike most of the nobility of that time, knowing how
to write, henceforth kept up a frequent correspondence with her. Odile
often gave him serious advice, which he received with tender gratitude.
Finding him well disposed, she decided to open her heart to him. Hugo
joyfully hastened to intercede for his sister, begging his father to
banish no longer a daughter whose virtues would reflect so much honor on
his house. But the duke, with his inflexible pride, assumed a severe
expression, and, in spite of his partiality for Hugo, told him he had
particular motives, for which he was accountable to no one, for requiring
Odile to remain at Baume. He also forbade his son ever making a like
request. The young man was profoundly afflicted. Impelled by his ardent
love for his sister, and believing her sweet presence would justify him in
his father’s eyes, he immediately despatched horses and everything
necessary for such a journey, telling his sister to set off immediately.
Full of confidence in Hugo, and sure that her father had consented to her
return, she left Baume. It was a sad and painful leave‐taking, but she
consoled her aunt and the nuns by promising to return and end her days
among them. But Heaven otherwise decreed.
Odile had hardly left the monastery when she began to reproach herself for
too strong a desire to return to her family, and for the eagerness with
which she looked forward to a taste of earthly happiness. She remembered
that he to whom she wished to consecrate her life is a jealous God, who
wishes his servants, instead of clinging to human creatures, to consider
them as instruments of perfection. She shed many and bitter tears, but,
according to her custom, she had recourse to prayer, which assuaged the
trouble of her conscience and restored a sweet serenity and trust to her
soul.
Protected by holy angels, she arrived safely at the foot of the mountain
on which rose the new castle of Hohenbourg. Adalric was conversing with
his sons when he perceived a company of armed men accompanying a vehicle
that was slowly ascending the acclivity. He inquired who the strangers
were. “It is my sister Odile,” replied Hugo joyfully. “And who dared bring
her here without my orders?” cried the duke in an angry tone. The youth
saw the truth must be acknowledged, and, bending his knee before his
father, he said: “It was I, my lord. Impelled by my ardent love for her, I
wrote her she could come. I am guilty through excessive affection. Punish
me alone, if you will not forgive, for she is innocent.”
Hugo, relying too much on his father’s partiality, thought he should
escape with only a few sharp words; but Adalric, inflamed with rage,
raised the staff he held in his hand, and inflicted such a blow on his son
that he fell senseless at his feet. Ashamed and sorry for his rashness,
the duke raised him, and ordered that his bruises should be cared for.
Adalric’s anger had passed away when Odile arrived at the top of the
mountain. Kneeling, she lifted towards him the eyes once closed to the
light. The duke, recalling the miracle wrought in her behalf, felt, for
the first time, an impulse of affection, and, raising her in a kind
manner, he bade his sons to welcome her affectionately. At that instant
Berswinde and her daughter Roswinde came running out. The duchess kissed,
with many tears, Odile’s eyes, acknowledging that God had suffered her
child to be born blind that he might at a later day manifest his power by
repeating the miracle of the gospel. Our saint was then conducted to the
chapel. There, humbly prostrate, she thanked God for protecting her in her
journey and reuniting her to her family.