SAD PRESENTIMENTS.
Thenceforth began a life so sweet that I am unable to describe it.
Victor and I lived in the most delightful harmony. Our love for each
other increased daily. We had but one heart and one soul. Our very
tastes accorded.
Oh! how charming and happy is the wedded life of two Christian souls!
What mutual sympathy! How they divine each other’s thoughts! How
readily they make the concessions at times so necessary, for the best
matched people in this world do not always agree! A life more simple
than ours cannot be imagined, and yet it was so sweet!
I worked beside Victor in the morning and during a part of the
afternoon, looking at him from time to time, saying a few words, or
listening as he read what he had just composed. He said he first tried
the effect of his writings on me. How happy I was when he thus gave me
the first taste of one of his spirited articles, in which he defended
his principles with an ardor of conviction and a vigor of style which
impressed even those who were sceptical.
Before dinner we went to walk together. I persuaded Victor to devote
a part of each day to physical exercise as well as mental repose. Our
conversation always gave a fresh charm to these walks. And yet we did
not talk much, but we infused our whole souls into a word or two, or a
smile. How often I dreamed of heaven during those delicious hours! It
is thus, I said to myself, the angels above hold communion with each
other. They have no need of words to make themselves understood.
Among the pleasant features of that period, I must not forget that
of Victor’s success. Before he was appointed editor, the poor paper
vegetated. There were but few subscribers. No one spoke of the obscure
sheet which timidly defended sound principles and true doctrines.
What a sad figure it made in the presence of its contemporary, _The
Independent_—a shameless, arrogant journal which boasted of despising
all religious belief, and scoffed at the honest people foolish enough
to read it!
Victor had scarcely been chief editor of this despised paper three
months before there was a decided change. Every day added to the list
of subscribers. The _Catholic Journal_ was spoken of on all sides.
The sceptical, even, discussed it. As to _The Independent_, it was
forced to descend into the arena. In spite of itself, it had to engage
in conflict against an adversary as skilled in irony as in logic. I
acknowledge I was proud of Victor’s success, and, what was more, it
made me happy. For a long time, young as I was, I had groaned at seeing
Catholic interests so poorly defended. They were now as ably sustained
as I could wish, and by the man whom I loved. All my wishes were
surpassed!
Nevertheless, there is no perfect happiness in this world. Even those
blissful years were not exempt from sorrow. God granted me twice, with
an interval of two years, the long-wished-for joy of being a mother,
but each time Providence only allowed its continuance a few months.
My first child, a boy, died at the end of six months. The second, a
daughter, was taken from me before it was a year old. You are young, my
friend and cannot understand how afflicting such losses are. A mother’s
heart, I assure you, is broken when she sees her child taken from her,
however young it may be. My husband himself was greatly distressed when
our little boy was carried off after an illness of only a few hours.
But his grief was still more profound when our little girl died. Dear
child! though only nine months old, her face was full of intelligence,
her eyes were expressive, and she had a wonderful way of making herself
understood. She passed quietly away, softly moaning, and gazing at us
with affection. Her father held her in his arms the whole time of her
long agony. It seemed as if he thus hoped to retain her. She, too,
was sad, I am sure. She seemed to know we were in grief, and to leave
us with regret. Her sweet face only resumed its joyful expression
after her soul had taken flight for heaven; then a celestial happiness
beamed from her features consecrated by death. Victor stood gazing at
her a long time as she lay on the bed with a crucifix in her innocent
hands. His lips murmured a prayer in a low tone. It seemed to me he
was addressing our angel child—begging her to pray that God would
speedily call him to dwell for ever with her in his blissful presence.
The thought made me shudder. It seemed as if I had at that moment an
interior revelation. I knew that was Victor’s prayer, and I had a
presentiment it would be heard.
From that day, though we had a thousand reasons to consider ourselves
happy, we were no longer light-hearted as we once had been. There
was a something that weighed on our minds and kept us anxious, and
empoisoned all our joys. Life seemed unsatisfactory, and we drew nearer
to God. We were constantly speaking of him and the angel who had flown
from us, and we often approached the sacraments together. It was thus
that God was secretly preparing Victor to return to him, and me to
endure so terrible a blow.