Uncle Bartolo took Lucia to his own house, and, while they were

preparing supper, went himself to that of Lucas, who, on receiving his

discharge, had returned to Arcos and to his post among the

day-laborers, and had, by his aptness and diligence, won so much

credit that several profitable jobs and positions had already been

offered him. As will be supposed, he had found his father’s house

sold. But as his kinswoman still lived in it, he hired his former

habitation, and she assisted him.

Uncle Bartolo entered, just as Lucas had finished his supper.

“Sit by, Uncle Bartolo,” said the young man.

“No, thank you. May what you have taken profit you! Will you have a 197

cigar?”

“It wouldn’t come amiss.”

Uncle Bartolo handed Lucas a paper cigar, lighted his own, and, with

characteristic bluntness, plunged into his subject.

“Lucas, man, will you tell me why you never speak of your sister? Does

it appear to you that a sister is a patch sewed on to be ripped at

pleasure?”

Lucas, disagreeably surprised, contracted his brows as he answered:

“I have no sister, Uncle Bartolo.”

“What! what do you say?”

“I have already said it. ‘In my manse they bestow but one loaf.’”

“Go a-walking with your grand talk! I’d like to know what right you

have to deny your sister, even though her life has not been what it

ought to be?”

Lucas had turned pale, and his beard trembled with repressed

indignation.

“Uncle Bartolo,” he replied, affecting an air of indifference, “the

saying is, ‘He that goes away is not counted.’ Let us drop this

conversation.”

“I don’t feel disposed to; you may as well understand that. And now,

let me tell you that this face of a judge, though it may be the

correct one to show to a sinner, is not by any means the one to show

to a penitent. Do you comprehend? Your poor little sister is penitent;

and you know that

‘He who sins and mends,

Himself to God commends.’”

“I have said that I had no sister.”

“Don’t be stubborn, for God’s sake! Look here now, soul of an ape! How

can you say you have no sister, if he has given you one? Lucas, I have

come, and I shall not go away until you forgive Lucia.”

“Uncle Bartolo, don’t pledge yourself to what you cannot accomplish.”

“You are your father’s own son--the one and the other harder-headed

than oxen. Juan Garcia and Lucas Garcia: there’s a pair fit for a

cart!”

“Why fall upon me, sir, in such a shower of sarcasms? Is it necessary

to give so many punches to say that the bull is coming?”

“Because he comes with a purpose, and, ‘when things come with a

purpose, more than the ass may fall to the ground.’ I tell you only

the pure truth, and you, with your devil’s motto of ‘few words and bad

ones,’ what you say has neither form nor sense! But to come back to

the subject, for I don’t let go the handle this way when I am

defending the right. As I was going to say, your stubbornness is worse

than your father’s; because it is not so bad to be determined upon

marrying one’s girl as to be determined not to forgive one’s sister.

It’s better to do more than your duty than to do less. If your father

lacked puncto, you have half a share too much. Your mother committed

your sister to you; and you are disobeying the last will of her that

bore you!”

“She committed my sister to me, but not the kept miss of a villain.”

“You are soaring as the eagle, which is a royal bird; you pronounce

your sentences like a judge of the Audiencia, and make yourself

believe that you are wiser than the Regency. But you are greatly out

of the way, my son. It ill becomes you to go before God in casting out

your sister; your own mother’s daughter, when her misfortune was

partly your fault.”

“Mine, sir?”

“Yes, yours; for you threw off the burden like an untamed colt; cast

behind you the trust you received from your mother, and, without 198

commending yourself either to God or the devil, shouldered your gun

and made off; knowing that for six years, walled up in a uniform, you

must lose sight of your charge; knowing, besides, that you were

leaving her in a house where wickedness was well established. And so

what happened, happened. The past is past, and can’t be mended now;

but after this, do you think it is right, Christian, that your sister

should have no one to turn to when she leaves her sinful life?”

“She ought to have remembered in time that every uphill has its down.”

“But, my son, is not this to

‘See the ulcer, see the woe:

Shut the purse, and naught bestow’?

This is to have bowels of a pagan toward a poor creature that they

pushed and pushed--a child that did not know what they were doing.”

“Uncle Bartolo, ignorance does not take away sin.”

“Do you think, if you had had your evil hour--suppose it for instance,

only--and had robbed or done something that had dishonored you, and

had gone to your sister, that she would refuse to own you? I’ll be

bound she wouldn’t!”

“Well, I should have acted badly. But the case is impossible, for it

would have been my care not to put myself in her way. ‘He that touches

his own with his leprosy, gives it to them, and does not cure

himself.’”

“Lucas, my son, the sentence says, ‘Act with good intention, and not

with passion!’”

“And the proverb says that ‘blood boils without fire,’ Uncle Bartolo.”

“Lucas, for the love of the Blessed Virgin! How can he who shows no

mercy hope for the mercy of God? Do a good deed, and, when you lie

down, though it be upon a mattress of rushes, you will sleep without

bad dreams, and as sweetly as if it were a bed of feathers!”

“You are wasting words, Uncle Bartolo. Even if I am condemned for it,

I will not hear that vile thing spoken of, and so--stop!”

“Go to, then, _Cain_!” exclaimed the good old man as he rose to leave,

“and God set a mark on you as he did on the cruel brother that he

cursed! I’d rather have her, with her sin and her repentance, than

you, with your virtue and your pride.”

To paint the grief of the wretched Lucia when Uncle Bartolo informed

her of the no-result of his mission, would be impossible.

“Holy God!” she exclaimed between her sobs, “only with thee shall I

find mercy! Ah! how I loved this brother in the days of my happy

childhood, when I was innocent, and he was all my consolation! Then he

could not do enough to please me, and used to swear never to abandon

me!”

“Come, come, dry your tears, my daughter,” said Uncle Bartolo. “‘The

frightened partridge is the first to get skewered.’ What do you want

of an unnatural, without bowels of compassion? You have me, and the

roof of my house is not so small that it cannot shelter you. What I

have you shall share, and you can help my poor Josefa. She has become

a potsherd, and don’t get much rest, for ‘woman’s work is done and to

be done again.’”

When the other inmates of the house slept, Lucia kept lonely vigil,

and wept the things that had formerly made her happiness--her poverty,

her innocence, and her brother’s affection. Wandering in the vast

field of her recollections, she found both affliction and consolation

in recalling all the particulars of her simple life; every proof of 199

tenderness that she had received from her brother; every hope,

withered or dead. With the deepening silence and shadows of the night,

her anguish increased. “What shall I do? What shall I do?” she cried,

wringing her hands. “I cannot be a burden to this good old man! I

cannot stay in this neighborhood, for my own brother’s rejection of me

will encourage others to outrage me! What shall I do? I must beg if I

cannot find work! Where shall I go? Wherever God may lead me!”

Without waiting for daylight, and silently, in order that her

departure might not be perceived by her protector, Lucia opened the

door, and stepped into the street.

But she could not leave, for ever, a place so dear to her, without

lingering for a moment before the adjacent house. It was the one in

which her mother died; its roof had sheltered her tranquil infancy: in

it she was leaving the brother that she still loved, in spite of her

guilt and his inhumanity.

Lucas was not asleep. Exasperation, a disquieted conscience, and heavy

heart had driven repose from him.

All at once, he was startled by the tones of a sweet and tremulous

voice near to the street door, singing the romance that he had taught

his sister when she was a child. He sprang from the bed, moved by an

irresistible impulse, but instantly covered his ears with his hands as

if to shut out the sound.

The voice sang:

“Praying in God’s name, sister,

And for his sweet mother’s sake,

Give my little children bread,

And his word in payment take.”

Struggling with mingled emotions of rage and grief, Lucas seated

himself upon his couch, and beat upon the ground with his feet.

The voice, becoming all the while more low and quivering, proceeded:

“He takes a loaf, and breaks it,

But throws it down again,

For blood run out of the bread.”

The brother’s heart was choking him, yet, still resisting, he covered

his now tear-stained face with both hands. But when the voice, broken

by sobs, continued,

“And she that, without pity,

To a sister refuses bread,

To God’s Mother doth refuse it”--

he rushed to the door, and, dashing it open, ran out; and Lucia, with

a cry of joy, threw herself into his extended arms.

The next day, Uncle Bartolo remarked to his wife:

“When the devil enters into one, he locks all the doors behind him.

But until the last hour, his divine Majesty keeps a postern open in

the sinner’s heart.”

[56] Name given to the subsidy formerly levied by the

King of Spain for carrying on wars against the infidels.

[57] On the wane.

[58] Faded fashions.

[59] In faith.

[60] “Will you please not interrupt me?”

[61] Once for all.

[62] What for, my dear?

[63] I know how to behave.

[64] Don John made of Money.

[65] “The aspect of the old is full of majesty:

Their words are laden with the secrets of existence.”

[66] An old soldier of the olden time.

[67] “Hush, I beg of you.”

----------

THE LIQUEFACTION OF THE BLOOD OF ST. JANUARIUS. 200

NO. III.

But this is far from being the general rule. In 1543, the diary

mentions the presence of Muleasses, Bey of Tunis, a Mohammedan, and

records his expression of astonishment at what he beheld. On several

other occasions, Mohammedans were witnesses of it; some became

Christians. Protestant travellers from England, Denmark, Sweden, and

Germany have written accounts of what they themselves saw. On four of

the six occasions when the writer of these lines was present, he can

bear personal testimony to the presence of Protestants.

It is narrated that the liquid blood has been known to solidify

instantly, whenever the reliquary passed into the hands of a

particular canon, in his turn of office, to be presented by him to the

people, or when certain persons approached to venerate and kiss it,

and would as quickly liquefy again when they withdrew. A notorious

case is mentioned by the Bollandists, and by other authorities, of a

prince, whose name, for family reasons, was not given--for the matter

was published in his lifetime. At his approach the liquid blood used

to become solid. His personal character left no doubt on the minds of

the Neapolitans why this happened.

We have already spoken of the notable differences of color, on various

days, or parts of the same day. The diary registers them as _bright_,

_beautiful_, _vermilion_, _rubicund_, or as _dense_ or _dark_, or

_blackish_, or _ash-colored_, or, again, _pale_ or _yellowish_.

Sometimes the whole mass was of one uniform tint. Sometimes there were

several tints in different parts, as in 1748, when, as we saw, one

portion was blackish and the other ash-colored, the vial being then

full, and the blood liquid, as afterwards appeared.

Again, the liquid blood is sometimes quite quiescent, yielding,

indeed, to every movement of the ampulla, as water would, but when the

ampulla is at rest on its stand, remaining in it as tranquil as water,

with a level and smooth surface, and without the least indication of

internal movement. Yet often it gives forth a froth or foam, which

covers a part or all of the surface, which stains the glass dark or

vermilion, and the remains or traces of which may be noticed on the

mass when indurated afterwards; that is, if this foaming has continued

until a solidification on the altar, or until the reliquary is locked

up in the evening. Very often this foaming will cease after lasting

half-an-hour or an hour. Its ending and disappearance is as fitful as

its beginning.

Sometimes the motion is greater, and of a different character--an

ebullition or boiling, as the Italians call it. Portions of the liquid

blood are thrown up a quarter of an inch, or more. Sometimes this

bubbling has been very violent, some of the liquid being thrown up

into the neck of the ampulla to the very top.

On December 16, 1717, it is recorded that, before the liquefaction

took place, and while the blood was still hard and solid, “an

exhalation was seen to rise from the hard mass, like to a little cloud, 201

and to ascend to the top of the neck.” On 24th September, 1725, “the

blood was taken out hard, and immediately liquefied; and three or four

times, of itself, it moved round in a circle within the ampulla,

although the ampulla was then in its place on the altar, and

motionless.”

It is needless to cite any more of the thousand-and-one items of such

character scattered through the diary. They all show the sincerity and

good faith of the writers, and the care with which the minutest facts

were observed, and accurately recorded on the day of their occurrence.

Next to the occurrence of the liquefaction, the most important fact,

in our judgment, is the frequent change of volume which the mass

undergoes while liquid. We say while liquid, for we do not discover,

either in the diary or in our researches elsewhere, any indication of

such a change taking place while the blood is in its solid condition.

But, while liquid, such changes are so frequent and so great that the

diary, as we saw, noticed their absence or _quasi_-absence, during one

octave, as something remarkable. The blood is said to be at its

ordinary or normal level when it fills about four-fifths of the space

in the ampulla, or vial. It has been known to sink below this, but

very rarely. Ordinarily it is oscillating in volume, sometimes

reaching the neck, or entering it so high as to leave only a thread of

light, or even filling the neck up to where it enters the mass of

soldering. The extreme distance between the two levels is about an

inch and a half, and the volume must increase over twenty per cent. in

order to rise from the ordinary level so as to fill completely the

ampulla. The days are comparatively rare when some change of volume

is not seen, either by increase or by decrease. The change is

generally gradual, yet such as may be watched and followed. Sometimes,

however, it is quite rapid in the ascent or the descent, or in

its alternations of rising and falling; sometimes almost

instantaneous--_in un colpo, in un tratto_.

These ordinary oscillations or changes of volume, which occur at any

time, may be looked on as the usual and minor form of one general and

striking trait or mode of action. When the increase is carried to its

utmost extent, the vial is seen to be completely filled; and this

fulness, in turn, presents many variations to be studied. We may

divide them into two classes. The first embraces all those cases in

which the fulness terminates, and the blood commences to diminish in

volume, at any time before the close of the octave; we may call these

completed periods. The second embraces all those in which the fulness

continues to the end, so that, on the last day of the octave, the

blood is replaced in its closet still completely filling the ampulla;

these we call incomplete periods.

To the prior class belong, first, all those many instances in which

the blood swelled up and filled the ampulla and commenced to sink

again in volume on the same day, whether after a few moments or after

several hours of fulness. Again, the diary records _three_ cases

in which it so rose one day and sank the next; _four_ cases in which

it rose one day and sank the second day after, keeping the ampulla

completely full for the entire intermediate day; _six_ cases in which

there were two such intermediate days; _two_ with three, and _four_

with four such intermediate days of complete fulness. We have thus

nineteen cases recorded in the diary, to which we should add, 202

perhaps, an equal number for the first category. A complete period, so

to call it, of the fulness may vary, therefore, from a few moments to

five consecutive days.

The second class comprises ninety-four instances of fulness opened and

not completed during the octave. The varieties in these are even

greater than in the former class. In _nineteen_ cases the fulness, or,

at least, its last phase, commenced on the closing day; in _five_

cases, on the day before; in _nine_, on the third last day; in

_eleven_, on the fourth; and in _twenty-two_ on the fifth day,

counting from the closing of the octave; in _twenty-six_ cases, the

fulness began on the sixth day; and in _two_ cases, as far back as the

seventh day, counting from the close of the octave. We have here

twenty-eight of these incomplete periods, longer than the longest of

the closed or complete periods, just mentioned, still further

complicating any question as to the lengths of these periods of

fulness.

Whenever, during an octave, the ampulla is locked up at night

_full_, it will be found _full_ the next morning. When it is locked up

at the close of an octave in that state, it will be found in the same

at the first opening of the next celebration, months afterwards. We

said that the mass changed its volume only when in a fluid condition.

We may now venture to add that such changes take place only in public,

and never while the blood is closed up in the closet, or

_armoire_. In examining the diary very carefully, we find that, in the

vast majority of cases, the level of the mass as stated when taken

out--whether it be at the ordinary level, or somewhat elevated, or

very high, or full--perfectly agrees with the level at which it was

stated to stand when last put up, whether the day before or at the

close of the preceding octave. In a number of cases, indeed, the diary

is silent or obscure on the point; but its language often seems to

imply this fact, or to take it for granted. Nowhere does it state the

reverse in general terms; and we cannot find a single instance

recorded which establishes the contrary. The blood is always found at

the level at which it stood when last put up.

These ninety-four unclosed periods were, therefore, prolonged to the

next festival, when the ampulla was taken out still _full_. Some of

these periods had just commenced on the last day; others had lasted

six full days after the day of their commencement. Is there any marked

difference in their closing? Not in the day; for they all, with three

exceptions, closed on the first day of the incoming octave, if they

had run over to May or September, or on December 16, if that was the

next exposition. In regard to time, there is no rule. The most

numerous class, containing twenty-six instances, varied from

_immediately_ to _nine hours and a half_; nine times the liquefaction

occurred in less than one hour, and nine times it delayed more than

three hours--the other eight times it lay between the two. The

twenty-two cases of the next highest class present the same

diversities of time, from _immediately_ to _nine hours and a half_.

Nine instances were under an hour, eight were over three hours, the

remaining five lay between the two divisions.

The more those periods of fulness are examined, the more clearly does

it appear that they follow no system, and can be classified or

accounted for by no law. We see the mass swelling and increasing its

volume and filling the ampulla, and continuing to fill it for some 203

moments, or hours, or days. We can note the facts; but why this

increase? why does it rise so high? why to-day, and not yesterday, or

to-morrow? why so long, or not longer? Physical science is as utterly

unable to answer these questions as it is to assign a cause for the

liquefaction itself, or for the various and varying phases of the

blood of St. Januarius.

As was stated in our preceding article, the Neapolitans hold that the

proximity of the relics of the head and the reliquary with the vials

of the blood to each other, is ordinarily the sufficient and

determining cause of the liquefaction. Their whole ritual of the

expositions is based upon this principle. The separation of the

relics, or their _quasi_-separation, by a veil thrown over the

reliquary of the blood, is ordinarily sufficient to terminate the

liquefaction and to indurate the blood anew. But, on the other hand,

the diary records a number of instances in which the blood, having

been found hard, liquefied at once, even before the reliquary was

placed near the bust. Several times, too, it has liquefied in the

streets, while carried aloft in the afternoon procession of the vigil

in May towards Santa Chiara or a _seggia_, although the bust had

already been carried thither in the forenoon. So, too, a liquefaction,

partially commenced in the _Tesoro_ chapel or in the cathedral, has

often continued or been completed during the outdoor procession

through the streets, on the festival of the patronage, in December.

Another cause or condition, perhaps as important as the proximity of

the relics, is, in our judgment, the strong faith and the earnest

devotion of the attendants--a faith and devotion in which the

Neapolitans, clergy and people, are not surpassed. It was, perhaps,

for this reason, that in the extraordinary expositions of which we

have spoken, the liquefaction so often occurred quickly, and, as the

Neapolitans would say, _Il miracolo era bellissimo_. The devout

strangers to whom the favor was granted brought to it faith and piety.

On the few occasions when it was tardy--on none did it entirely

fail--there may have been too strong an ingredient of mere profane

curiosity. Kings, and princes, and nobles of high worldly standing

have often visited Naples, and sometimes sought and obtained this

favor of an extraordinary exposition of the relics in their presences,

that, apart and with less danger of any intrusion on their personal

dignity or comfort, and in the company of their chosen attendants

only, they might have an opportunity of witnessing the miracle at

their ease. This was the length of their privilege. As for the

liquefaction itself, they had to wait as others waited, and, perhaps,

because they did not pray as others prayed, they were sometimes

disappointed.

In 1702, Philip V., King of Spain, to whom Naples was then subject,

visited the city, reaching it on the afternoon of Easter Sunday. On

Easter Tuesday, April 18, he was present at a Pontifical High Mass

celebrated in the cathedral. After that long ceremony, his majesty

passed into the _Tesoro_ chapel, where there was to be a special

exposition of the relics, that he might venerate them and might

witness the liquefaction. “The blood was brought out hard; four Masses

were celebrated in succession (about two hours); but the saint was not

pleased to work it. The king departed, and the Masses continued. At

the sixth Mass, and as the king had entered his carriage at the

cathedral door, the blood liquefied. The king returned at 22 o’clock,

and kissed the relics in the hands of his eminence in the _Tesoro_.” 204

However, the diary mentions that he did witness the liquefaction

itself at the next regular day in May, with all the people.

Other instances are given in which viceroys and nobles and princes

waited until they were tired out. Soon after their departure, when the

faithful and fervent people might freely crowd the chapel and pray,

the liquefaction would occur.

It is impossible to exaggerate the firmness of their faith or the

depth and tenacity of the affection of the Neapolitans for this

_their_ miracle. Whatever else happens to their fair city, nothing

must interfere with their devotion to St. Januarius and the proper

celebration of these festivals--neither wars nor pestilence, nor

eruptions nor earthquakes, nor change of rulers. Once a battle raging

in the streets prevented an outdoor procession. But, within the

cathedral, there was a procession through the aisles and nave, and all

things else went on as usual.

Oddly enough, the greatest disturber, to judge by the simple-minded

writers of the diary, has been--rain. Not that the weather has any

direct influence on the liquefaction or its circumstances. Quite the

contrary. The blood liquefies all the same, and with as many attendant

variations, whether the day be fair or rainy, whether the season be so

dry that the farmers are complaining of drought, and prayers have been

ordered for rain, or whether it has been raining incessantly for weeks

and months, to the injury of the crops, and in the churches they are

praying for fair weather; in summer, when the sun is pouring down his

almost tropical beams; and in winter, when the procession is confined

to the cathedral because it is too cold to go out into the streets,

or because the ground is covered with snow. These meteorological

changes have no apparent influence on the liquefaction or its

characteristic circumstances.

But at Naples they sometimes have terrible deluges of rain--steady

downpourings such as one may witness only within or close to the

tropics. Sometimes these have come on just at the hour to interfere

with the grand afternoon procession of the vigil in May, forbidding

it, or ludicrously disarranging it, and forcing monks, friars,

priests, seminarians, canons, and people alike to break the ranks and

seek immediate shelter in the neighboring shops and houses. However,

come what might, at the worst, his eminence, or the highest

ecclesiastical dignitary present, with a few attendants of waterproof

hearts, would carry the relic, in a sedan chair or a carriage, it

might be, to the appointed place. Is it not all punctually set down in

the diary; at what corner, or in what street, the procession was

broken up, and who then carried the relic on, and whether still on

foot or in a carriage, and how many courageously accompanied him? We

may be sure that on arriving at their destination they never failed to

find the church, despite the rain, and despite the absence of

fashionable ones, filled by devout souls, who loved their saint more

than they feared even such weather.

Passages in the extracts we have made from the diary, and many other

passages we might quote, indicate the feelings of alarm which fill the

hearts of the Neapolitans when the liquefaction fails to occur, or is

attended by circumstances which they traditionally dread. St.

Januarius is their patron saint. This ever-recurring liquefaction is,

in their eyes, a perpetual and miraculous sign or evidence of his care 205

and protection. When it occurs regularly, when the liquefaction is

complete and the color of the liquid blood a bright vermilion, and

when there are no sudden disturbances and only slight variations of

level, the Neapolitans are happy. “It is a blessed octave.” They think

they have evidence that all will go well with them. If, on the

contrary, the hard mass does not liquefy at all, or if the liquid

blood appear turbid, dark or ash-colored, or if it rises and falls

rapidly, or if it presents other unusual and sinister appearances,

their hearts sink, and they are filled with alarm and anxiety. They

fear that this is an indication of the displeasure of heaven, and that

the chastisements they deserve for their sins may soon come on them.

We once heard a learned Neapolitan enlarge on this theme, and cite

various instances in the history of his city in which he showed a

remarkable coincidence, at least, between such facts of the

liquefactions and the occurrence of wars, pestilence, famine, and

disastrous earthquakes, or of other signal chastisements from heaven.

We were not sufficiently conversant with the history of Naples either

to controvert his statements or to allege other facts to the contrary.

It is a subject on which one might go astray, almost as easily as if

he undertook to interpret the Apocalypse. But our friend professed to

have the history at his finger-ends, and certainly was himself

thoroughly convinced of the truth of his opinion.

Travellers are accustomed to tell amusing stories of the impatience

and irreverence of the Neapolitans during the exposition, whenever

there is an unusual delay in the liquefaction. They charge them with

addressing the saint alternately in expressions of religious homage

and of bitter reproach, praying and beseeching him one moment and

apostrophizing him the next in slang terms of vituperation. Such

travellers, we may be sure, are either drawing on their own

imagination or on the store of anecdotes they have heard from others.

They usually know little of Italian, and are utterly ignorant of the

peculiar dialect of the Neapolitan people--almost a language in

itself. The only possible excuse for making such a charge would be a

stranger’s misconception or misinterpretation of the demonstrative

gestures they indulge in when deeply moved, and his utter ignorance of

the words they are uttering. We opine, however, that the motive,

generally, is a wish to parade droll and amusing statements, even if

they be neither witty nor true.

We have been assured by many respectable clergymen of Naples, who, of

course, know their own people, and often have to chide them, that

there is not a word of truth in this charge.

The clergy and the laity of Naples, of all classes, learned and

unlearned alike, believe most steadfastly and earnestly in the

miraculous character of the liquefaction of the blood of St.

Januarius. Many strangers who have seen it and have examined it

critically have come to the same conclusion. Although the church has

not spoken authoritatively on the matter, still the consensus of so

many learned, intelligent, and pious persons who have so accepted

it--the fact that during so many centuries it has stood the test of

time, and that science has not been able to explain it away or to

reproduce it artificially--and the very character of the liquefaction

itself, with its attendant circumstances, so clear, so plain, and so

decisive--all leave no room for reasonable doubt.

To complete our statement, we must, perhaps, go still further back, 206

and inquire how it has come about that a portion of the blood of a

Christian bishop, beheaded in the year 305, under Diocletian, and in

virtue of edicts by that emperor for the suppression of Christianity,

should, after the lapse of so many centuries, be now found in a glass

ampulla, or vial, at Naples. To some, this primary fact may, at first

sight, appear as strange and as extraordinary, if not as

unaccountable, as the subsequent liquefaction itself.

To an Italian Catholic, indeed, a doubt on this head would scarcely

present itself. The usages and the thoughts of his ancestors in the

faith have come down to him so naturally that they form, as it were,

part of his being. He thinks, and feels, and knows as his fathers did

before him. In such cradle-lands of Christianity, and among a people

that has never swerved from the faith since the early ages of the

church, there is what we might term an inherited Catholic instinct, a

readiness and a correctness of Catholic thought in religious matters,

which those of other lands that received the light of Christianity

only at a later period, and consequently have not such a bond of

ancestral connection with the Christians of the days of persecution,

can only reach by study and cultivated piety. However, even a moderate

acquaintance with the usages and customs of those early ages will show

in many instances that what some have considered peculiar national

traits of perhaps later growth are in reality deeply rooted in the

customs of those ancient times; and that many a point, often set down

as a fond fancy or a singular product of superstition, is firmly

established as a truth, by historical research into their records.

This is the case with the question before us.

As we study the daily life of those early Christians, passed under

circumstances so very different from those of our modern life, and

strive to realize to ourselves their thoughts and aspirations, their

motives and modes of action, nothing stands out in bolder relief than

their exalted conception of the honor and glory of martyrdom. In the

exquisite pages of _Fabiola_ and of _Callista_, the learned Cardinal

Wiseman and Dr. Newman have made these early Christians live again

before us; and we catch some insight into their enthusiasm on this

subject. To them, a martyr, dying for the faith of Christ, was--and

truthfully--a hero of the highest grade. _Greater love than this no

man hath, that a man lay down his life for his friends._ John xv. 13.

They could never sufficiently honor him. For, honor him as they might,

all they could do would fall infinitely short of the honor which God

had already bestowed on his soul in heaven, and that which he would

bestow on his body in the resurrection. A martyr’s blood, in their

view, stood next in rank to the blood of the Saviour.

Their daily life made martyrdom the prominent subject of their

thoughts. Day after day, they saw their brethren seized, imprisoned,

tortured, and put to death for the faith. Each day, any one of

themselves might be seized and led to martyrdom. The greatest of all

triumphs, and the surest passport to everlasting bliss, was to

persevere unto the end in that conflict; the greatest of all

misfortunes was to fail and renounce or deny the faith for fear of

death. Each one strove to hold himself ever ready for the trial. Their

pastoral injunctions; their mutual exhortations; their most precious 207

literature--the _Acta Martyrum_; the ornamentation of their chapels

and crypts, still visible in the frescoes of the catacombs; the site

of their chosen sanctuaries, amid the tombs of their martyred

brethren; the very altars at which they worshipped; the tombs of their

more glorious martyrs--everything co-operated to keep alive this high

esteem of martyrdom, and to stir up their hearts to courage, and even

to a yearning for so glorious a crown, and so happy an ending of this

life of trials and sorrow.

While a confessor of Christ, as they called him, lay still in chains,

they used every means to enter the prison and to visit him--sometimes

availing themselves of legal rights, sometimes under various pretexts,

sometimes by bribery; when these would all fail, then by stealth and

at every risk. For he was to be strengthened by the sacraments and

encouraged by their words, or they were to be strengthened by his

example; and especially they would not lose the opportunity of

commending themselves to his prayers, and of seeking the blessing of a

chosen friend of God.

When he was led forth to trial, or to torture, or to death, they would

glide in among the crowd pressing around him, that he might be cheered

and sustained by the sight of Christian faces or by their outspoken

exhortations, and that they might catch and embalm in their hearts

every courageous word of faith he spoke to his judges, to the

executioners, and to themselves or to the crowd, and afterward be able

to bear testimony and to record the heroic triumph of another martyr.

After his death, they spared no effort to obtain possession of his

mortal remains, as of a most precious treasure. Their very earnestness

on this point was not unfrequently made an occasion of aggravating the

sentence. After execution, so the judge would order, the body must not

be delivered to his friends, according to ordinary usage. These

obstinate and fanatical Christians must be thwarted in their dearest

wish, or, rather, in their criminal purpose, of honoring one whom the

laws had sentenced to an ignominious death. Let the body be burned,

and the ashes be cast to the winds or to the running streams; or let

the vultures and ravenous dogs consume it; or let it be sunk by

weights in deep waters; let it be done away with in some manner, so

that the hated Christians be balked of their purpose.

At times this was successfully done. Often, however--even despite

these orders--entreaties and bribes to the soldiers and executioners

would prevail to obtain the body, or at least the fragments of it. If

they failed, stratagems would be used, and persevering search made,

even at great personal risk, to recover it. Very often, as the

martyrologies and _Acta Martyrum_ tell us, it was in such attempts

that the Christians were discovered, apprehended, and themselves

condemned as fresh victims.

When the execution was by beheading or dismemberment, or such other

mode as caused the effusion of blood, the Christians were careful to

gather this up in any way they could. Not unfrequently it was all they

could recover. Cloths and sponges sucked it up from the hard pavement

of wood or stones. The earth saturated with it was carefully gathered

up and borne away, that at home and at leisure they might carefully

separate the blood from the earthy matter, and place it reverently in

some vase, ordinarily of glass, sometimes of earthen ware, and in a

few instances of bronze. Sometimes a portion of sponge or of cloth 208

so saturated would be kept as a precious jewel in a locket of silver

or gold, and be preserved in the oratory or chapel of a Christian

household, or even be reverently borne on the person. Ordinarily,

however, the vials or vases into which the martyrs’ blood had been

gathered, or the open vases containing the saturated sponge or the

bundle of blood-stained cloths, would be placed with the body in the

tomb; or the vials might be built into the masonry of the tomb, near

the head, in such a way as to be partially visible from without.

The _Acta Martyrum_--the official records of the sufferings, death,

and deposition or burial of the martyrs, written out at the time by

appointed officers of the church--bear frequent testimony to the

widespread existence of this custom. Other Christian writings, in

prose and in poetry, refer to it frequently. We find it prevailing at

Rome and in all Italy, in Carthage, in Sebaste, in Nicomedia, in Gaul,

and throughout the church. It was the universal custom.

About the time when the body of St. Januarius was transported from the

original tomb where it had been laid during the persecution, to the

church of St. Januarius, _extra muros_, at Naples, similar

translations of the bodies of martyrs took place elsewhere. St.

Ambrose, the great Bishop of Milan, gives an account of such a

ceremony for the martyrs St. Gervase and St. Protasius, and again for

the martyrs St. Vitalis and St. Agricola. He mentions finding in the

tombs, in both cases, the blood of the martyrs which had been gathered

and placed there. St. Gaudentius, Bishop of Brixia, about the same

time, mentions a similar fact. Some centuries later, the northern

barbarians were making raids into Italy, and had repeatedly broken

into and desecrated the sepulchres in the catacombs, either in mere

wantonness or in search for the treasures which they thought might be

hidden there. In order to save the venerated relics of the martyrs

from such outrages, the popes opened the tombs of the martyrs in the

portions of the catacombs then accessible--a great portion being

already closed up, either by the falling in of the roof or by the act

of the Christians centuries before--and transferred the remains to the

churches within the city for greater safety. In opening the tombs,

these vases were often found, and hundreds of them are now in the

churches or in the sacred museums of Rome. Three centuries ago, Bosio,

and after him Aringhi, Boldetti, Mamachi, and others, penetrated into

the catacombs, searched them anew, and came upon some of those

portions which had not been disturbed at the time of the general

removal. In such portions not a few unopened and undisturbed tombs of

martyrs were found. Within lay the remains of the body--bones and

dust--with sometimes the rusted fragments of the instrument of death,

and frequently the vial, or ampulla, of the martyr’s blood. During the

last forty years, the work of investigating the catacombs, which had

been intermitted, has been taken up afresh and prosecuted with

earnestness and skill by F. Marchi, Cav. de Rossi, and other eminent

archæologists. They still come occasionally across the tombs of

martyrs, evidently untouched since the day of deposition, and within

them, or in the mortar by the head, the vases of blood are still

found. Where these vials are so placed in the mortar as to be visible

and accessible from without, the thin glass has generally been broken.

But the bottom still remains firmly set in the mortar, and contains 209

or is covered to some extent by a thin, dry, reddish crust adhering to

it. This crust or film is all that is left of the blood the vase

originally contained. Vials, or ampullæ, in the interior of the tombs

are of course perfectly preserved. It is indeed interesting to look on

one of them, and to mark exactly the line to which the liquid blood

once reached, and the purple hue of the sediment or crust now left,

with its brighter or darker shades of color, perhaps from the

character of the blood, more probably from the thickness or thinness

of the crust itself. Under all the accumulated evidence, one scarcely

needs to read the rude inscription found and still legible, although

only scratched in the mortar when it was soft: SANGUIS, or SANG:

SATURNINI, _The blood of Saturninus_. We know that this is blood

which once flowed from a martyr’s veins, in testimony of his faith in

Christ our Lord.

In the 17th century, when Bosio, Boldetti, and others brought out such

vases from the catacombs, and special attention was directed to them,

the nature of this dry reddish crust adhering to the interior was

examined chemically. There was no discordance in the results obtained.

Among those who made such an examination was the celebrated Leibnitz,

a Protestant, among the ablest and most learned men of that age. He

gives an account of his process, and the decision at which he arrived:

_This coloring matter on the glass is sanguineous_. Some years ago,

the present Pontiff, Pius IX., had a new analysis made according to

the fullest and most accurate tests of modern chemistry. The answer

was still the same: This substance is, so far as chemistry can decide,

precisely what ought to remain as the residuum of human blood.

It is clear that, both as to the custom of the early Christians of

carefully gathering up the blood of their martyrs, of placing it in

ampullæ, or vases, and religiously preserving it, and likewise as to

the identification of the ampullæ themselves, the testimony is all

that can be desired. Bosio, Aringhi, Boldetti, Mamachi, Gaume, Marchi,

Raoul-Rochette, De Rossi, Perret--all who have studied the question,

are unanimous in recognizing these numerous old Roman vials, or

ampullæ, still found in the catacombs and tombs or preserved in the

churches, as the identical vials, or ampullæ, so used by the ancient

Christians. On this point, there remains not the slightest room for

doubt.

It is therefore but reasonable that there should exist in Naples a

vial, or ampulla, of the blood of St. Januarius. He was in his day a

distinguished bishop of the church. His martyrdom was public, and

attracted the attention of the Christians. It was by beheading. There

was no conceivable reason why the Christians should omit in that

instance what they were universally so careful to do in such cases. On

the contrary, to judge from the ancient accounts we have of the

martyrdom of St. Januarius and his six companions, the Christians

found no extraordinary difficulty in obtaining the bodies, and

entombing them in their usual mode. When, eighty or ninety years

later, the church had been firmly established in peace, the body of

St. Januarius was taken from the original tomb and brought to Naples,

as the bodies of the others were taken to the various churches which

claimed them.

The very presence, therefore, of an ampulla in the custody of the

church of Naples, together with the other relics of St. Januarius, is 210

under the circumstances _prima facie_ evidence of its own

authenticity--evidence which cannot be impugned, except by attempting

to overturn a well-known and universally admitted usage of the early

Christian church, or else by a supposition, equally gratuitous and

absurd, that the ampulla which originally was in existence, and was

prized beyond measure and carefully preserved, was somehow lost, and

another fraudulently substituted in its stead. We need not recur to

the olden traditions of the church of Naples or its legends concerning

this relic--traditions and legends found, too, we believe, among the

Greeks, whose intercourse with Magna Grecia, as Southern Italy was

called, was more intimate and continued longer than with any other

portion of Italy. We scarcely need the testimony of _Fabius Jordanus_,

quoted by Caraccioli, going to show that, so far back as A.D. 685, it

was the custom of the clergy of Naples to bear the relics of the head.

The historical evidence in favor of the genuineness of the relic is

ample and satisfactory. There would not be a moment’s hesitation on

the point but for the very vain hope which some minds may entertain

that, by declining to admit the genuineness of the blood, they will

somehow escape the difficulties of the liquefaction. As if the

liquefaction of any other substance, with all the circumstances which

characterize the liquefaction at Naples, as we have set them forth in

our previous articles, would not be for them as hard if not a harder

nut to crack than the liquefaction of the blood of St. Januarius!

Having, therefore, established the genuineness of the relic, the next

question which presents itself is this: Are we to attribute the

amount of the blood still to be seen within the ampulla when at its

ordinary level, and its condition when hard, to the continuous action

of natural causes; or are we to recognize in those points the effects

of that supernatural force to which the liquefaction itself is to be

attributed? Would or would not the agency of natural causes have

resulted in a greater reduction of the original volume of the blood,

and in a far different condition of the residuum, at the present time?

We know pretty accurately the composition of human blood. The

proportions of the several ingredients going to constitute it may vary

somewhat according to the health and the food of individuals. Without

entering into the refined, and as yet not fully accepted results of

the latest qualitative analysis, it will be sufficient to give the

following table of the constituents of the healthy blood of man:

Water, 790·37 }

Albumen, 67·80 }

Oxygen, } }

Nitrogen, } } serum,

Carbonic acid, } } 869·15

Extractive matters, } 10·98 }

Salts, } }

Coloring matter, } }

Fibrine, 2·95 }

Hæmatine, 2·27 } }

Globuline, 125·63 } } clot,

------ } 130·85

Blood globules, 127·90 }

-------- --------

1,000·00 1,000·00

Water constitutes nearly four-fifths of the entire quantity. If it be

driven off by evaporation, only a dry mass would remain behind.

When blood issues from the veins, it first passes through the process

of coagulation, the successive steps of which have been carefully

examined. Perfectly liquid as it comes out, the blood soon thickens,

through the action of the fibrine it contains, into a firm, elastic,

uniform, jelly-like mass. Soon drops of clear, amber-colored fluid

begin to exude from the mass of jelly, and accumulate until the whole 211

mass is divided into two parts--the serum, a transparent, nearly

colorless fluid, in which there floats the clot, or crassamentum, a

firm, red and opaque mass. In time, the clot is further divided. The

fibrine is seen at top, forming a layer of considerable consistence,

soft, elastic, tenacious, and of a yellowish white color; the under

portion, consisting of the heavier parts of the clot which have

gradually settled down to that position, is a red mass, made up

chiefly of the blood globules.

Further exposure would by degrees eliminate the aqueous portion by

evaporation, and the progress of decomposition would tend to free the

gases in the other constituents, and thus still further to diminish

the mass. But no experiments, instituted by physicists, can compare,

in time at least, with the instances presented to us in the vases of

the catacombs. There, traces on the glass still show clearly to what

level the blood, or at least the clot, originally reached; and we see

what has remained after a lapse of sixteen hundred years--a crust of

dry reddish powder adhering to and coating the sides and bottom of the

vessel.

Boldetti, however, mentions three instances in which such ampullæ were

found in the catacombs containing a residuum of the blood still thick

and slightly liquid. And, if we are not mistaken, something similar

may be seen in some other vials preserved here and there, and held to

contain a portion of the blood of certain martyrs.

The early Christians of Italy gave up the old Roman custom of

incremation, or burning the bodies of the dead, and adopted instead

the Eastern rite of sepulture. In some instances, at least, they seem

to have used spices and ointments, as the Jews and Eastern nations

generally did; and some of them might even have had a knowledge of the

antiseptic preparations used by the Egyptians. They never prepared the

dead as mummies, but they may at times have put some antiseptic

ingredient into the blood, tending by its chemical action somehow to

retard the escape of the water and the decomposition of the mass. If

this were really done or not, we believe modern science cannot decide;

and the historical evidence is not clear.

Something may be due, also, to the mode in which they would sometimes

close a narrow-necked vessel of glass. When it had received its

contents, the glass of the neck would be heated, probably by the flame

of a blowpipe, until it became soft and pliable. The sides would then

be pressed together until they coalesced and became united, thus

obliterating the orifice; or else molten glass would be carefully

dropped on the lips of the mouth, until the whole was entirely coated

over and perfectly closed. When either was followed and the work was

done perfectly, the ampulla would be, in fact, hermetically sealed.

The air would thus be excluded, and evaporation nearly arrested.

Placed in a _loculus_ or grave in the dry earth of the catacombs,

twenty-five or thirty-five feet beneath the surface of the earth, the

ampulla would also be subjected to an ever-equable temperature of

about 58° Fahr. Under such circumstances, especially if we admit the

presence of some antiseptic ingredient, it may be possible that

decomposition would be very slow. But, after all, the glass sides of

these ampullæ are thin, and glass is porous, and sixteen centuries is

a very long time. Even were the sides far thicker than they are,

evaporation would have slowly taken place, the gaseous products of

decomposition would have gradually passed through into the outer 212

atmosphere, and only the dry solid residuum would be left, as we

ordinarily find it in the ampullæ from the catacombs. The case of the

ampulla containing the blood of St. Januarius is not open to these

doubts. We are not able to say, indeed, whether it was actually closed

in either of the modes we have indicated. As it stands in the present

reliquary, of which we have given an account, the mouth enters so

deeply into the upper mass of soldering within the case that the eye

cannot discover the manner of closure. Before it was placed in this

reliquary, five hundred and seventy or seven hundred and thirty years

ago, this could probably have been seen; but we have found no record

throwing light on the subject. We presume it was done in one or the

other of the modes we have described. It is certainly so tightly

closed that not a drop of the liquid blood within has ever been known

to ooze out.

But this ampulla has not been lying in the low and equable temperature

of an underground vault of the catacombs. It has been preserved in the

upper and variable atmosphere of a city, subject for many centuries to

the excessive heats of almost tropical summers, and to the cold winds

that blow down at times from mountains covered with snow. By no law of

physics could a mass of blood so situated escape the natural

consequence--a vast diminution of bulk by the loss of water and the

escape of gases. The film that coats the interior of the smaller

ampulla seen in the same case or reliquary, so like the film seen in

the whole and in the broken ampullæ of the catacombs and churches

generally, shows, we think, what would have been the natural course.

That the larger ampulla should, on the contrary, have lost nothing in

the volume of its contents--that it should still be four-fifths

filled, although for centuries exposed, as we have said, to heat and

cold--that this general permanence of bulk and of character should be

maintained, although eighteen or twenty times a year the mass

alternates from a solid to a fluid condition, and passes through many

subordinate changes of color and volume--these facts seem to us not

only utterly inexplicable, but directly contrary to all we know of

physical laws. We place them along side the grand fact of the

liquefaction itself, as being in some measure its characteristic

concomitants. Still, should any one deem these questions too obscure

to be peremptorily decided, we shall not now discuss them. We are

quite willing to let them stand or fall with the more prominent and

important and more tangible question of the liquefaction itself. Of

that we shall now proceed to treat.

TO BE CONTINUED.

----------

THE WAYSIDE SPRING. 213

FROM THE FRENCH OF ALPHONSE DE LAMARTINE.

As here is quaffed a sweet forgetfulness

Of the long journey yet to go,

So unto all who through life’s pathways press,

Lord, from thy rock let waters flow!

Let thy sweet grace refreshment be!

On earth we wander wearily,

And in a thirst that will not cease.

Oh! let each dry and dusty lip

From thy deep hidden fountain sip

Sweet draughts of love and peace.

Ah! every soul drinks its own cup of bliss.

Some the delights of glory bless;

One finds it in a little daughter’s kiss,

Another in a wife’s caress.

The secret friendships of the heart,

The rapture of creative art,

Each hive its own sweet honey stores;

To every lip let torrents burst

From life’s great fount; but I--_I_ thirst

For the eternal shores.

Earth’s dreams are but a bitterness to those

Whose yearnings are for love divine.

No rivulet sparkles here, no runlet flows,

To satisfy this thirst of mine.

What shall assuage it? The desire

That heavenward ever doth aspire,

And sigheth ceaselessly;

The sweetness that in suffering lies,

And tear-drops showering from my eyes,

Are hope’s one draught for me.

----------

VALENTINE. 214

FROM THE REVUE DU MONDE CATHOLIQUE.

I.

“Frankly, my dear friend, tell me, is she not charming? Does she not

lend a certain grace to her white dress, and a brilliancy to her blue

ribbons? Is she not the prettiest flower in my garden?”

“And my Alfred, dear Madame de Guers, does he not look well by her

side? Are there many young men in our village who appear to such

advantage near this fair and graceful darling, now in the flower of

her youth?”

“What you say is true, my friend. We have both of us, thank God, fine

children--noble, virtuous, and good; and I hope they will be happy.”

“They will make a very handsome couple, at all events,” concluded M.

Maubars, rubbing his hands and smiling contentedly.

Thus spoke two old friends, as they sat quietly, one summer evening,

in the shadow of the hop-vines of a pretty green arbor, and talked

away in this simple, lively, and joyous manner, while they observed

their children as they appeared here and there in the garden-walks.

When people have passed fifty, and known each other since they went to

the same school in childhood, and during the long succeeding years

have resided pretty much in the same place, they are very apt, when

talking together, to speak openly from their hearts, especially if

those hearts are filled to the brim and running over with justifiable

paternal pride and motherly tenderness. And it was true that the dear

Alfred, the only and cherished son of M. Maubars, was handsome,

honest, active, and gifted, and, thanks to the fortune which he would

inherit, would one day take his place among the most respectable

citizens of the province. As to Madame de Guers, this fair and worthy

old lady, with white hair, in whom all the select souls of the little

town saluted and recognized a sister, all the poor a benefactress, and

all the afflicted a friend, she had never been a mother. She had

married late, less from inclination than duty, to obey a vow of her

parents and fulfil a family project; she had cared for, with an

admirable devotion, and supported with a no less admirable equality of

temper, the precocious infirmities and frequent brusqueries of M. de

Guers, who, as former captain of a vessel, had lived a silent, sombre,

deserted life in an old cold-looking little house on the coast. But

one happy day the sun seemed to shine brighter for her, and the

radiant sentiment of an unknown happiness mingled with her tears and

her regrets, as one of the friends of her childhood, a poor widow, in

dying, confided to her the education and guardianship of her deserted

infant. What a complete happiness, what a recompense for all the

sunless days, the gloomy and heavy hours, so faithfully supported! M.

de Guers, though very ill at the time, consented to receive the child,

on condition, as he added peremptorily, “that she should be kept very

neat and make no noise”--this his precise and solemn declaration. The 215

little Valentine seemed to understand what was expected of her, and,

though stirring, vigorous, and lively, rarely a rent was seen in her

little Indian silk, never a spot on her red lips nor her cherubic

forehead. When she happened to fall, she smothered her sobs and cries;

when she remembered the past, she wept low for her mother--and all

this not to displease the old gentleman, shut up in his close parlor,

where he contemplated with astonishment mingled with pity and respect

his two unfortunate legs--done up in flannel. Time, childhood, and

natural gaiety combining, the little girl began even to find herself

perfectly happy in this old house, where she was cherished, and

nothing left undone for her needs, her games, or her repose.

Need we say that her adopted mother was happy? At the end of the long

nights of want of sleep and suffering that she passed with the ill and

impatient old man, she ran for a moment to the little chamber above,

and watched the sweet pet, with brown eyes and rosy cheeks, as she

woke to her morning’s happiness; she felt the dear little round arms

press her neck, the sweet tender lips imprinted on her own, and she

thanked God for this blessing. The little toilet made, and the

breakfast over, she carried down-stairs happiness enough for

half-a-day. Later, when her voice trembled at the end of some long

lecture, or her arms were wearied at some endless rubbing, she looked

out the window, saw the little one disporting in the sun, playing

hide-and-seek among the lilacs, or smiling to her from amidst the

roses, and, at this sight, it seemed her cup of joy was full, that the

spring light played even in the sick man’s chamber, and for the time

she forgot whether she was guardian or victim. Thus she lived on,

consoled and strengthened by the child, consoling and strengthening

her husband, until the day when M. de Guers died, and both wept his

loss--Valentine with time having learned to love him; and he himself,

won by the grace and beauty of the child, had often so far unbended as

to keep time for her with his crutch while she danced all alone before

his window in the garden.

From this moment, Madame de Guers gave Valentine all her time, her

heart, her cares, her tenderness. I leave you to imagine how such

precious gifts, with the aid of years, added to everything lovely and

noble in the child. Of all the young girls of C----, Valentine at

eighteen was not only one of the most beautiful, but, better still,

the best, the simplest, the most tender, the humblest, the most

joyous, and the best loved: the most ill-natured of the citizens could

not refuse her their homage, and her adopted mother loved her to

excess and with pride and delight; M. Maubars, too, the oldest friend

of the house, and his son, the elegant Alfred, saw in her perfection a

treasure, and their united wonder. Then at eighteen the future is so

beautiful, the horizon so pure, dreams so sweet, and friends so

tender! How happy, then, was our Valentine at this moment, when,

joyous under the eyes of her mother, gay and confiding in the presence

of her future husband, and gracious and pretty as she always was in

her simple and quiet toilet, she wandered hither and thither in the

garden, breathing the air, gathering the flowers, and breaking from

the trees the large snow-balls that shed their petals on her lustrous

brown hair.

We do not know exactly what Alfred and Valentine were talking about in 216

the garden-walk, as running from side to side to form their bouquet

they chanced so often to meet. But, under the arbor, they were more

grave, calmer, and certainly more mature, and they spoke of business.

“If you will permit it, my dear friend, I should like the young couple

to live in my house,” said M. Maubars. “It is, I may say, without

vanity, one of the most comfortable and best furnished in the town. As

to me, you know, I am becoming a monk, or a bear, or a house-rat. The

rolling of the half-dozen coaches and the three or four cabs our town

possesses is sufficient to trouble my digestion, and almost deafens

me; so I think, in order to plant my cabbages in peace, I had better

lodge in the pavilion of my large garden at Vaux, which is not more

than a league from the town. My good old Baptistine will accompany me,

and keep the pot boiling. Every evening the children can come and see

me, that is, every fine evening; and you can have them right by

you--nothing to do but cross the street, and walk a few steps on the

quay, ring the little bell, the latch will fly up, and there will be

Valentine in a clean dress and red ribbon coming to meet you, for her

delicate hearing would distinguish your step among a thousand others

on the same pavement.”

“Poor dear child! I don’t want to be selfish, and yet it is hard to

part with her,” murmured Madame de Guers, while stifling a sigh.

“Do you call that parting with her, when I tell you she will be right

under your eye? And then, my dear friend, I must tell you you have

become very worldly of late. You are obliged to accompany Valentine to

this and that soirée, and it fatigues you, absorbs and puts you out

altogether. When it comes my Alfred’s turn to do all this for her,

you will see how you will improve, and old ladies always recover so

naturally. Confess it, my dear Madame de Guers, have you not for some

time been very negligent of yourself and your old people?”

“Alas, yes! poor good old people!” replied the respectable lady, with

a sweet smile. “Yet every morning, after Mass, I stop to see them.

True, my child monopolizes much of the time I should give to them, but

she loves them too: she has so excellent a heart! How often I have

seen her, when quite a child, take from her weekly allowance to buy

jujube for old Manou, who has catarrh so badly, and tobacco for

Périne, whose happiness is in smoking! And how she takes care of them

when necessary, my friend! How merry she makes them, and consoles

them, and reads them good books, and the Scripture she explains so

prettily! In truth, this humble work will not perish with me: I have

some one to whom I can confide it.”

This demands an explanation. Madame de Guers was not only an

excellent, tender, and devoted mother, a constant and generous friend,

but she was, at the same time, profoundly pious and sincerely

charitable. The death of M. de Guers had left in her soul a bitter and

secret sorrow, which she had never been able to console. The former

lieutenant of the service, in spite of the solicitations and tears of

his Christian and devoted wife, had bid farewell to this world in a

manner far from exemplary, dying, without doubt, peaceably and bravely

enough, but without repentance, without hope, without penitence,

neither fixing his eyes on the cross nor listening to the absolution

of the curé. So, for the poor, tender soul of the wife there remained

a gnawing regret, a continual terror, and at the price of any 217

austerities, of any sacrifices, she wished to secure the eternal

salvation of this obstinate husband. God only knows what

mortifications she practised in secret, to gain a little every day

towards the tender and sublime end she proposed; and, above all, she

openly redoubled her works of fervor and charity. A part of the money

left her by her husband had been employed by her in a house of refuge,

where ten or twelve old, infirm women, the very poorest of the

department, could live comfortably and in peace until the end of their

days, and at the low price of reciting every day from their bench in

the chapel a prayer for the repose and salvation of the soul of Jean

Louis de Guers, former officer of the king’s fleet. We said before

that Madame de Guers had given Valentine all her heart, her time, and

her life: we should, nevertheless, have remarked that she reserved a

portion for the poor old recluses of her little hospital, not finding

it a difficult matter to reconcile, in her humble and peaceable

existence, happiness and duty, charity and love.

“My dear old pensioners,” she said again, while regarding from a

distance her charming adopted daughter, who smiled on her from amidst

the shady trees, “they will be truly happy to find after me this dear

child, who will, I am sure, possess the courage and strength to

replace me. Good little Valentine! she has already given them, in my

name, a portion of her heart, and to do so she needs to be as generous

as in truth she is, for I could have given a much more brilliant

heritage to this dear child had I not already adopted my old people.

Her mother, alas! died without fortune, and for me, I have still

remaining forty thousand francs, invested in rentes in the state, and

my little property here. This is all, my good Maubars, I have to give

her.”

“Well, well, my dear friend, don’t trouble yourself. The whole will

amount to sixty thousand francs, at the lowest figure. Valentine is

treasure enough in herself, and don’t need any more.”

“A treasure! Yes, indeed, you have spoken the truth!” replied the

noble woman, fixing on her interlocutor a look radiant with joy,

happiness, and confidence; “and as you make me so happy, my brave

Maubars, in speaking as you do, I am not ashamed to confess I have

often thought--have often feared--well, don’t blame me; nothing, you

know, is so restless and timid as a mother--I have feared that a dowry

so small could not respond to the legitimate views of a young man like

Alfred, who can aspire to the best match in the country. I dare not

tell you how this secret doubt has tortured my heart. It would have

been so painful, so frightful to think that my want of foresight might

have prepared so bitter a disappointment for my dearly loved

Valentine.”

“And who speaks of disappointment, cowardly mamma that you are?”

replied M. Maubars, with the good hearty laugh of the retired

successful merchant. “Of course I do not mean that any dowry is to be

despised, and, I will add, if this were larger, it were so much the

better. But the moment that the question is between it and you and

Valentine, Alfred and I will accept what you have in all confidence.

Let there be no more mention of these things between us any more than

there is just now in the conversation of that happy couple smiling and

babbling among the roses.”

“How good you are, Maubars,” replied the adopted mother with a sigh 218

of relief. “Assuredly,” she continued with a sweet and mischievous

smile, “I am very sure that it is not with dowry or business that they

are entertaining themselves just now.”

This you may be assured of, my readers, for, just then, Valentine,

spreading into a sweet smile her fine and delicate lips, while her

brilliant eyes sparkled above the cheeks as rounded and satiny as the

petals of her roses, said to her partner, who was coming toward her:

“You had better believe me, Mr. Alfred. We will not go to Paris. Paris

is very far off, and it costs a great deal to go there. But we will go

every evening and see dear papa in his little pavilion at Vaux. Won’t

it be charming to do just as we did when we were little, ten years

ago, just us two alone, you and I, running through the ruts and the

fields, gathering the new hay and the herbs covered with dew?”

And the simple child, clapping her white hands, gently smiled still

more joyously at the innocent, truant projects with which she proposed

to inaugurate their future housekeeping. Then, Alfred having offered

his arm, she accepted it a moment in order to adjust with her young

intended some other detail of great importance, which she must tell

her mamma immediately--mamma holding her breath meanwhile, hearing

vaguely the murmur of the wind in the arbor and smiling with

tenderness as her child approached.

“Mamma,” cried Valentine, throwing her arms around her mother’s neck,

and with a caressing and infantine movement mingling the waves of her

lustrous hair with the fine, heavy gray curls, “did you not say that

the anniversary of your birth would come in two weeks, the second of

next month, and that you would love to see Alfred and me choose that

day to celebrate our betrothal?”

“Yes, my darling,” replied Madame de Guers gently.

“Very well, dear mamma, it is all arranged; we will exchange our rings

on the same day that gave me so dear a mamma. But have you decided

anything about the invitations?”

“I have at least thought of them, my child. We will have, I think, the

greater part of those of our own society, and especially, you

understand, all your young friends.”

“Yes, just as you wish. But is it to be only for the evening, dear

mamma?”

“Ah! my little ambitious one wishes to give a whole day to her

_fête_.”

“Indeed I do, mamma; I have dreamed of it even, so I may as well

confess. I want particularly in the morning to have those I invite al

to myself; I will receive them, lodge them, and serve them with my own

hands. O mamma! it will be so nice, in the shady part of the garden,

among the flowers, to set the long tables, and have an excellent

breakfast, good wine, cakes, a roast, and Pierrot the violinist with

his violin, and the baskets all filled with flowers! And my guests

will be so surprised, and so pleased, my dear good mamma!”

“But who are they, then?”

“Your old women, dear mamma.”

Madame de Guers’s response was to take the pretty brown head of the

charming child in her trembling hands, and to press it tenderly and

long upon her lips, while a gentle shivering of admiration and love

made her heart beat.

“It is said,” she replied at last; “the table shall be set for

fifteen, and there shall be cakes and violins, and wine and flowers. 219

You shall serve them, my child, and my old people will believe they

are at the wedding.”

Then, as the first stars began to dot the pure sky, and the happy and

united group rose to leave the perfumed shelter of the garden, Madame

de Guers, more joyous and prouder than ever, held back on purpose to

let the young people pass before her, while she whispered in the ear

of her old friend, who was philosophically taking in the whole scene:

“My good Maubars, did you not say, just now, my Valentine is a

treasure?”

II.

Two weeks afterward, the air being of the softest, and the sky most

radiant, Valentine received with great joy and pomp her morning guests

on this the day of her betrothal. Everything passed conformably to the

announced programme: the large table was ornamented and covered with a

long white cloth; the light wine of the country filled the glasses;

the cakes appeared large and gilded; and the roast was cooked to

perfection. At this succulent and cordial banquet the twelve old women

arranged themselves in order, and Valentine waited on them, cutting up

the mutton in rosy slices, distributing the pieces of cake with her

pretty little white hand, upon which shone the golden ring, with its

blue stone, that Alfred had sent her that morning to wear until she

took the other that would enchain her for life. The poor old gossips

feasted with a good heart, and laughed as they tippled, their glasses

tumbling against each other; while the sparrows, somewhat ousted,

piped in the branches, astonished at so much noise, then dropped

gently to the earth to peck at the crumbs of cake that fell in the

grass; and, to crown all, the violin of Pierrot, seated at his post

under the arbor, played for the delighted old women all the minuets,

gavottes, and hops of the good old time.

You can judge of the gratitude and general joy.

“God will take you to his holy paradise, good and beautiful young

lady!” said mother Périne, as she received from the hands of the

pretty child her third slice of mutton.

“What are you saying there, mother Périne?” cried Babet, her usual

antagonist. “What kind of wish is that you are making? Better hope for

Miss Valentine, as for many others, that paradise will come as late as

possible, and that here the dear good young lady will become a great

and good matron, and enjoy herself as much as she can in this world.”

“True enough,” said Manou, “for there is the scraping of the violin;

and just listen to that pretty gavotte! Oh! in those days when I was

but twenty, how I hopped about like a young goat at the first note of

the music. Dear me! Miss Valentine, how this good wine makes you young

again, and puts the gaiety into you! I do believe, if Pierrot begins

that flourish once more, I shall jump up and dance a minuet in your

honor.”

So Valentine laughed, and the other old women applauded, and Manou

fluttered about in true dancing style. Madame de Guers herself, who

was rarely gay, wiped away a joyous tear from her eyes, while a tender

and proud smile spread over her countenance. There was only the very,

very old Genevieve, who could not laugh, because she had lost her five

sons and grown blind in weeping for them. But, with her old wrinkled

hand, she had groped for the pretty little one of her young friend and 220

protectress, pressed it between her own, and repeated in mourning

accents:

“Miss Valentine, you deserve to be truly happy; you know how to give

blessings like the good God, whose care and pleasure it is to think of

the poor.”

Thanks to the pleasure of such a repast and so much time so happily

spent, the old guests lingered around the table in the garden, and

exceeded the limits of the morning hours. When at last they wended

their way homeward, accompanied by the good sister who took care of

them, they met on the road several of those invited for the afternoon,

friends of Valentine mostly, accompanied by their mothers, in elegant

toilets, and coming in great pomp to offer their compliments.

“Why, how is this, my dear? Have the old pensioners of Madame de Guers

come to congratulate you?” asked Rosine Martin, one of the young

ladies, as she entered and embraced her friend.

“Yes, Rosette, on this occasion I gave them a little _fête_. They

breakfasted here and drank my health; and, do you know, Pierrot played

the violin, and old Manou was so excited she actually danced a

minuet.”

“Do you hear what Valentine is saying?” whispered Madame Martin to her

friend and confidante, Madame Fremieux. “I always thought Madame de

Guers put on the airs of a great lady, and, of course, will leave the

same to Valentine, as foundress of charitable institutions.

Insupportable, is it not? And charity costs something too. It is well

to make a parade of it, whether one has it or not; and the question

is, whether it is prudent to put such ideas into the child’s head,

when she will give her at the very most two poor thousand francs?”

“Provided that charity is a luxury like any other, and often more

imprudent than any other,” added, sententiously, Madame Fremieux,

while she pulled out with her right finger the crushed ruche of her

green satin dress.

“What an odd fancy you have for these old gossips, Valentine!” said

Adeline de Malers, another good friend, a pretty young woman with two

handsome children, whom she led gaily into the garden. “There they go,

charmed with your reception, and repeating your name to all the echoes

of the town. Well, it is a good idea while you are waiting and have so

little to do, and nothing much to love. See what will become of them

when you will be mamma in your turn, my dear!”

“Do you think so, Adeline? I cannot agree with you,” replied

Valentine, blushing a little. “My dear good mamma Marie always found

time to give me all her care, her love, and her watchfulness, and yet

I am sure she never neglected these poor old friends. It seems to me

that when one becomes a mother, one desires to heap up a treasure of

good actions, and multiply one’s merits and virtues, in order that God

may requite the little good one does in graces and benedictions on

these dear little heads.”

“You always have a sentimental way of seeing things,” replied Adeline,

stooping and arranging with her rosy fingers the white plume that

graced the hat of baby; “but I doubt if Mr. Alfred Maubars will give

the same light to the chapter; for, my little one, husbands are not

nonentities in the future organization of a household; their decrees

are inevitable, and must be listened to.”

“O Adeline! do you really think that Alfred would wish to prevent my

doing a little good in assisting the unfortunate?” said Valentine, 221

deeply moved and almost indignant. “He who gave up his project of

going to Paris, which we were to do immediately after our marriage? He

who promised to give me one-half of what it would cost to make this

trip to make a present to dear mamma, and furnish woollen stockings

and aprons for the poor little parish children in the winter?”

“O my good Valentine! where you are just now, all this may be. But

later, it will not, my dear. Do you see? The most part of the good

husbands I know--and there are none too many of them--think charity

begins at home. The wife, if she pleases, may give away the old boots

and slippers, but woe to her if, in a fit of generous imprudence, she

parts with the half of the chicken or the little glass of port that

belongs to my lord.”

The joyous Adeline laughed with all her heart as she finished these

words, and for a moment Valentine smiled at the lively raillery of her

friend. But, M. Maubars and Alfred appearing at the same time at the

end of the walk, she fixed on her intended a disturbed, timid, and sad

look, asking herself if it could be true, if it could ever be

possible, that he who should be her natural confidant in all the sweet

and tender inspirations of her heart, in all the Christian aspirations

of her innocent and pious soul, should consider it a crime in her to

continue to obey the great and holy law of Christ that she had seen

practised, every day from her infancy, in her own humble home.

However, this passing distrust of the sweet and charming betrothed was

soon dispelled. Alfred approached and presented her a rich and

graceful bouquet, and his words as he handed it were so respectful and

tender, and his look so subdued and sincere! Then all the young people

invited had arrived; they were just finishing the joyous feast taken

together on the grass, and already they were preparing for the dance.

And now the scraping of Pierrot made way for an harmonious orchestra

that resounded sweetly, echoing through the shady bowers. On the

branches of the large lindens were suspended light and capricious-looking

garlands, in which little red, blue, white, gilded, and green lamps

were hung. They looked like stars that had come from heaven to see the

_fête_ and smile at the other living stars, the young girls their

sisters. M. Maubars had charged himself with this part of the

entertainment--an offering not of charity, but one made to youth and

pleasure. So, everything passed off as brilliantly as could be wished

on such a day; and quadrille after quadrille succeeded each other on

the same spot where, a few hours earlier, Manou, recalling her twenty

years, had so valiantly executed the rhythmical and bounding steps of

the ancient minuet of Auvergne.

And while the young people danced, the older ones talked in the

parlor, or complacently looked on while their children enjoyed

themselves from the little fringed pavilion with velvet benches that

had been prepared for them in front of the greensward. Madame Martin,

while admiring from afar her brown and pretty Rosette, had insensibly

approached the father of Alfred--and of all the ladies in the town,

she had the least sympathy for Valentine, having for a long time

nourished very sweet maternal hopes on the possibility of a marriage

between Rosette and the young Maubars.

“In truth, dear neighbor,” said she, accosting with an amiable smile

the honorable retired merchant, “one must confess you do things 222

royally. It certainly cannot be these ladies, with their small, very

small fortune, who have by themselves given us such a _fête_ as this.

And then, it is not according to their tastes. If by accident they

should have a little too much money, they would have less pleasure in

offering a ball to their friends than a breakfast to their old poor.”

“My dear Madame Martin, when one does as one can, one does as one

should,” replied, with a deep bow, M. Maubars, responding to her

compliment to himself. “As to these ideas of our excellent friend

Madame de Guers, you see, we must not be surprised at them. She has

always lived a little above our so-called middle society; she is a

woman--how shall I say it?--well, of the old _régime_. In her

devotions, in good works, and perseverance, she has grand ideas; the

commandments of Christ, the love of her neighbor, the good of the

poor. It is all beautiful, Madame Martin, and sits superbly on a woman

like her, grave and dignified, with such handsome white hair.”

“But for the little one--for Valentine--do you think, M. Maubars, that

it will suit her as well?” replied, quickly, the lady, with a mocking

smile.

“Oh! why not? Everything becomes a child. All these fine devotions are

an occupation for the widow and an amusement for the little one. It is

much better to direct her by caring for the poor than by ruining the

reputations of others and seeking false excitements. Wait till

Valentine becomes the wife of Alfred; that will change everything, you

know, neighbor. The dear child will only have one end, one duty, one

love--her husband.”

“Do you really think so, neighbor?” interrupted Madame Martin, in a

jeering tone.

“It is, at least, what all women promise at the altar, madame. And

Valentine will do as she promises, I am certain. A child so docile, a

nature so pliable, and a heart of gold. Yes, madame; I do not doubt,

if my Alfred wishes it, she will prefer the road to the market or the

grocery in preference to that of the church. And as to the refuge of

which you speak, Madame de Guers will take care of that, as it will be

her only occupation. My daughter-in-law will visit it occasionally in

her leisure moments.”

“It will become her well to adapt her household to his wishes; for

every one knows, neighbor, your son brings her a fortune far superior

to her own.”

“Alas! yes, you say truly; her dowry is the only weak point.”

“The little one will have scarcely anything, will she, M. Maubars?”

asked the lady precipitately, in her ardent, almost joyous curiosity.

“Oh! a modest cipher, but enough. There is nothing to complain of. If

it had been less, I confess I do not know what Alfred would have done.

The needs of luxury are so numerous nowadays, and it costs so much to

live, my dear lady!”

“Yes, we all know that,” replied the prudent mother. “This is the

reason I calculate, and economize, and stint myself every day for the

love I bear Rosette. According to my ideas, it is a culpable charity

that does not consider one’s own first.”

At the enunciation of this wise maxim, M. Maubars sighed profoundly.

At the bottom of his heart he could not help wishing, in the interest

of Valentine and Alfred also, that Madame de Guers, his dear old

friend, had less tenderness and greatness of soul, less generous

devotion, and a little more worldly prudence and solicitude for the 223

material side of life. Nevertheless, he was careful not to express

aloud the secret preoccupations which now and then disquieted him a

little; and just then Valentine, leaving the joyous group of dancers,

approached him, sweet and charming in her innocent joy and unaffected

simplicity. Her steps, delicate and modest, slid silently over the

grass, and the golden reflection of the long garlands of light made

her muslin dress appear whiter and more transparent, while her brown

hair, simply raised and half-crowned with a bouquet of small roses,

glittered browner and more lustrous as the tiny lamps threw their rays

upon it as she passed. The smile alone of such a charming

daughter-in-law could dispel a host of deceptions and fears. In

Valentine’s eyes beamed so much candor, love, sweetness, and virtue

that in admiring her one forgot the more or less respectable cipher of

the promised dowry.

But Valentine did not remain long with the group of talkers seated in

the shade; she was looking for Madame de Guers, and ran away promptly

when she heard the good old lady had gone into the house.

“Dear mamma, are you ill?” said she, quite distressed when she saw her

dear protectress in the little reception-room, carefully wrapped up in

a large shawl, pale, trembling slightly, and appearing to suffer.

“Oh! my child, it is nothing; a slight chill--a trifling ailment only.

We have had a great deal to do today, and I am tired. Perhaps I took

cold sitting so long in the shade of the lindens. Go and dance, my

love, for you must replace me and finish the ball. Make my excuses to

our guests.”

Valentine obeyed, but she left her mother sadly, with a secret

convulsion of the heart, that dimmed her bright eyes and her radiant

smile. Two hours after, when, at last, alone on the step of the dear

old house, she had said adieu to her guests and was at liberty to run

to the room where Madame de Guers already reposed, she saw clearly

that this instinctive fear was a realized fact. The sleep of her

adopted mother was agitated and painful, her forehead was burning, her

eyes half-open, her breathing difficult and accelerated. For the first

time in these fifteen years of peace and happiness passed under the

friendly roof of the old house, the heart of the young girl sank for a

moment under the weight of an unknown grief--of a mortal anguish.

Without thinking of her ball-dress, she knelt down at the foot of the

bed, weeping in terror, praying to God, and gently kissing, from time

to time, the hand of the sick woman, who, in her feverish sleep,

muttered words without meaning. And thus she awaited the day--the new

day that was to arise for her, and menace her with danger, grief,

terror, and anguish.

III.

It had been decided, on the day of the modest betrothal, that the

marriage of Alfred and Valentine should be celebrated a week after the

Nativity of Our Lady, in September, before the first fogs of autumn

had tarnished the verdant woods, and before the vintagers had robbed

the robust vines of their golden grapes on the slopes descending to

the valley below. But autumn passed; the woods grew yellow and the

leaves fell; the joyous shouts of the vintagers ceased to rejoice the

hills, and the icy winds of winter blew over the blackened slopes,

without Valentine having sought her white marriage robes. Alas! it 224

was a robe of mourning that covered her now, poor little one! She had

again become an orphan; her sweet and careless happiness of the young

daughter, the cherished child so tenderly protected, was all gone,

destroyed for ever, for ever lost with the last swallows that fled

from the woods with the first falling leaves. The most devoted care,

the greatest affection and constancy, could not preserve to her this

nervous and tender mother, whose life here below was sad enough, and

whose death would have been sweet, had she not so felt for and

trembled for her child. Her illness, however, had been long and

courageously combated, and for some time there was hope of triumph

over the disease, until one day, when Valentine was absent on a

pilgrimage to a neighboring chapel, a sudden hæmorrhage set in, and

Madame de Guers, feeling it necessary to use what strength she had

left, sent for several papers, and with pain wrote for her adopted

daughter directions which were not to be opened until a month after

her death, when the first transports of grief were over.

The fatal moment then came, and by one of the last auroras of

September, soft, fresh, and almost veiled, Valentine found herself on

her knees by the bedside of the dying, exchanging the last adieux with

her tender benefactress, the devoted mother who, from her infancy, had

so unceasingly studied her happiness. The poor child remembered no

more: grief had completely prostrated her, and she forgot her own

existence until one evening, returning to consciousness, she found

herself clothed in deep black, and alone with Marianne, the old and

faithful servant, who wept low by her side and tried to console her.

Then, M. Maubars and Alfred had come, and Valentine felt a secret

consolation in the midst of her sadness. It was so sweet, so toning

and strengthening, to know one’s self still loved while circumstances

had separated her from him upon whom she had lavished such a wealth of

affection. It is true the consolations offered by the future

father-in-law and betrothed were not of the highest order of morality,

and not very profound, perhaps, but they were truly affectionate and

sincere--at least, Valentine thought so--so they had power to

alleviate her grief and restore her heart’s serenity.

“What would you, my child? We are all mortal,” said the future papa.

“But we can still console ourselves, and live almost happy in the love

of the friends that remain to us.”

Alfred did not even say as much. But he looked at her tenderly, with a

gentle expression of interest and pity; he quietly took the little

white and thin hand that lay languidly on her black drapery, and

pressed it between his own, while he murmured:

“Poor dear Valentine! Poor friend, so dearly loved.” And these simple

words, this look, this affectionate gesture from the friend of her

childhood, seemed to open to the heart-broken young girl a new

treasure of hope and consolation.

The days, however, rolled on: grief was not less profound, less

constant, or less bitter, but it became necessarily more contained,

more resigned, was borne more valiantly in secret, giving place to

austere duties, they serious preoccupations of life. The time came,

naturally, when business had to be spoken of to Valentine. Until then,

with respect for her grief and her weakness, they had spared her every

proposition, every discussion on the subject.

“I will do all that is necessary,” murmured the poor child. So they

told her she must assist at the opening of the will, which would take 225

place by the notary, in presence of authorized witnesses.

The solemn assembly, therefore, convened on a cold morning of November

in the large parlor of the house. A biting and mournful wind shook the

windows, and threw against them in disorder the last leaves of the

lindens that on the day of the betrothal had balanced so joyously

their green perfumed crowns above the gladdened heads of Valentine,

her companions, and her betrothed. The last wishes of Madame de Guers

were expressed in a manner at once neat and concise. Her little

capital of 40,000 francs, placed in rentes on the state, and her

house, with all its dependencies, were willed by her to her dear

pupil, Valentine Vaudrey, in default of direct inheritors from her own

family or from that of her husband. The assistants knew in advance the

tenor of the will; nevertheless, after its reading they hastened to

congratulate the poor heiress, now overwhelmed in tears.

“Dear good madame knew you well, and she was not wrong,” said the old

and honest Marianne, with a convinced air.

“My dear child, hereafter you are quite at home,” added M. Maubars, as

he pressed with lively affection the little white hand, quite dampened

with tears.

The notary, however, made a gesture with his hand to reclaim still

some moments of silence. “The reading of the papers establishing the

last wishes of the defunct is not yet completed, gentlemen,” added he,

in a grave and measured voice. “I have in my hand a letter written by

my respectable client fifteen days before her death, and addressed to

her pupil, Mlle. Valentine Vaudrey. Mlle. Valentine will be kind enough

to take notice, conjointly with myself and M. the President of the

Tribunal or M. the Justice of the Peace, if these last recommendations

are not to be considered as bearing upon her affairs.”

Valentine, drying her eyes, raised her pale, noble forehead, and tried

to collect her voice, that trembled greatly.

“My good Monsieur Morin, read the letter,” said she, “I pray you. My

dear and best friend had no secrets to confide to me, I am sure, and

her last wishes should be respected and known by all.”

The notary bowed and broke the seal. With one look he glanced through

the writing, and a shade of surprise and anxiety was depicted on his

face. Valentine, disquieted in turn, advanced gently, and extended her

hand toward the paper.

“Of what is this the subject, sir?” she asked timidly.

“Business; only business, my dear young lady,” stammered the good M.

Morin in an embarrassed tone.

“Then read it aloud, I pray you, sir,” said the young girl, tranquil,

resolved, and suddenly reassured.

The notary then slowly unfolded the paper, put on his spectacles, and

began his reading in the midst of a profound silence, and perhaps

anxiety, that reigned just then among the little assembly.

“My dearly loved Valentine,” said the noble woman dead, “forgive me if

I open my heart to you, and if, in giving up what has been, after you,

the joy and consolation of my existence, I leave you perhaps serious

duties, real and profound anxiety. My will, as you no doubt have

learned, makes you the one and only heiress to the modest sum I feel

so happy to be able to leave you. But you know, my poor dear child, I

have besides undertaken, and you know with what end, a work of mercy 226

that I wished to succeed and prosper a long time, even when my

presence and aid would have, by the will of God, been withdrawn from

my poor old _protégées_. This charitable foundation has been for me

the object of grave and disquieting cares, that till now I have never

found necessary to confide to you. I have just learned that the

proprietor of the building that shelters my poor old pensioners,

having some speculation in view, has decided to take possession of it

and its dependencies himself, or will only permit me to retain it

under conditions too exacting to be in harmony with my slender

resources. Many people of judgment whom I have consulted have all

counselled me to choose another abode and there install my pensioners.

If I had found myself, as formerly, alone in the world, I should not

have hesitated to do so; but to find a suitable house and pay several

debts of my poor little hospital--for times have not been good for a

few years past--I should have had to have laid out at least twenty

thousand francs, almost the half of my present fortune; and could I

deprive you of so important a sum--you, my best loved and only

heiress, who cannot have the same reasons for being interested in the

existence of the work, and therefore its continuation?

“This idea has not seemed possible to me, my dear child; therefore I

have made no reserves, no stipulations in the interests of my poor old

dependants, leaving it to your reason, not less than to your generous

heart, to decide what you find best to do. Perhaps the advice, the

support of the new family into which you are going to enter, of my

good friend M. Maubars, whom I have always known so loyal and just,

will be at your service, and, without impoverishing yourself, you can

aid those whom I have always wished so much to see prosper. Take

advice, then, of these friends, my daughter, consult your own

faculties, your strength, and, above all, do not precipitate anything.

It would have been too painful for me to have died in the thought of

relinquishing this work which has been so dear and consoling,

therefore I speak to you of it to-day, confident you will understand

me in this as in everything else. But, in any event, I hope that

Providence will continue to watch over this modest foundation for his

glory, and whatever you decide to do, my good and tender child, be

assured you will have my approval and my blessing.

“Farewell, joy and consolation of my old years, sweetness of my life,

my dear daughter. I will not forget you in the presence of my God, if

he will deign to hear my prayers.”

Thus the letter finished, and the sad and continued voice of M. Morin,

which seemed to die out in murmurs, was only replied to by the long

and bitter sobs of Valentine.

At the end, the young girl, trembling and half-tranquillized,

approached the notary, turned toward him her mild countenance, where a

timid smile of gratitude and tenderness already commenced to shine as

a fugitive and light ray in the midst of her tears.

“Monsieur Morin, in four months I will be twenty-one,” said she.

“Perhaps the proprietor of the asylum will wait till then. I shall be

free then, will I not, to give the twenty thousand francs necessary

for the purchase of the house?”

A profound silence, soon interrupted by a feeble murmur, greeted at

first these words of the orphan. M. Maubars rose from his chair,

shrugged his shoulders slightly, approached her, and took her hand 227

with a benevolent and paternal smile.

“Permit me, my dear child,” said he. “You are not--my worthy and

respectable friend knew it well--quite competent to decide in matters

of business, and you had better, I think--”

“You think perhaps I would do better to install the poor women in this

dear old house,” interrupted the generous girl, with her sad and sweet

smile. “Monsieur Maubars, I love it too much, this humble abode, too

much in truth, I have in it so many sweet recollections, and have

passed here so many happy days of infancy. But my poor dear mamma

would perhaps be happier to know her old friends lodged and sheltered

here, in her own house. So I am quite ready to give it up to them, if

you think it right, quite suitable.”

“But no, no, dear good Valentine,” replied the prudent papa, with a

very embarrassed air. “My child, you well understand, questions of

sentiment should never interfere with those of business. Think, by

abandoning this little property, or its equivalent sum, you give up in

reality one-third of your dowry--a dowry, permit me to say too,

without any grudge, that is already not the most considerable. Think

that all prudent people would endeavor to dissuade you from taking

this part; that you are not in reality free to accomplish a sacrifice

so important and to the detriment of your future family.”

Ah! poor Valentine! had she ever expected such a declaration? At first

she listened calmly, then smiled; then as she comprehended these

words, that came like a thunderbolt upon her in all their cruelty, her

paleness disappeared and gave place to a quick and glowing redness;

then this in turn vanished, and she remained cold and white as a

marble statue. Then a ray of indignation and grief glanced from her

pure eyes, but compressing, however, the sudden beating of her heart,

palpitating and growing colder every instant, she replied, still in an

uncertain and timid voice, with a firm and serious accent, but

caressing and affectionate:

“Free, did you say, my good Monsieur Maubars? Do you not mistake me?

Should I not be always free to accomplish my duty, the last wishes of

my mother?”

“But allow me ... distinguish,” repeated the future father-in-law,

alarmed but yet not discouraged. “There is an imprudent and rash

liberty, my dear young lady, and one that is provident and wise. You

see yourself that your tender and generous protectress orders nothing,

and asks nothing of you. She simply engages you to seek for the best

advice of those who are interested in your happiness, in your future

destiny, mine amongst others, my dear child. And you know well I am

disposed to act toward you as an old friend, as your father. I have a

great influence in benevolent societies, am a member of several;

nothing easier for me to tranquillize you on the subject of your old

women than to make out a little account of the actual state of things,

with a few words of my own observation, and have them received without

any delay or trouble into the hospital for incurables in this

department. In this way, my dear Valentine, you see all can be

arranged for the best. You will be relieved from all inquietude as to

the fate of the _protégées_ of the excellent Madame de Guers; your

little fortune will not be compromised; exempted from every care, free

from obligations, you can consecrate your entire time to your duties,

to the affections that await you in your new family.”

Valentine listened to every word, her eyes fixed, her lips immovable.

But from time to time a deeper and more sombre shade spread over her 228

eyes, an expression more desolate fixed itself on her lips. When the

caressing and persuasive voice of her future father-in-law ceased to

be heard, she sadly bent her head, and replied:

“Alas! Monsieur Maubars, I see we can never again understand each

other. I am not free, as you appear to think. What my dear and worthy

protectress would have done, I must do for her.”

“But, my child, reflect: you cannot sacrifice your little fortune.”

“And this fortune, to whom do I owe it, then--I, a poor, abandoned

orphan, who, without the generous protection of this inestimable

friend, would have been sent in years gone by where you would place

these poor infirm people--in a hospital. Oh! my good Monsieur Maubars,

if my benefactress had in dying left some debt of honor that I should

pay, would you advise me to cancel the obligation--you who are so just

and honorable?”

“But, dear young lady, the case is different; your excessive delicacy

leads you astray.”

“It is only different in one respect: it is more grave and solemn.

This is a sacred debt that Madame de Guers has contracted toward God

and toward the poor, to satisfy the yearning of her soul. To-day this

debt is transmitted to me. I recognize it; I receive it with the rest

of her heritage; I promise to use, if necessary, all my resources, all

my time, all my strength to pay it as I should.”

The young girl, pale though resolute, rose in pronouncing these words,

and extended her little hand, that had ceased to tremble, as if she

called upon all the strangers assembled to witness her irrevocable

decision, her generous determination. The old frequenters of the

mansion could scarcely recognize her: she seemed to have grown taller,

ripened in a moment, and was transfigured. Her former sweetness, so

timid and charming, did not abandon her, but there mingled in it an

expression of invincible courage and inflexible integrity; the weak

and feeble child had disappeared, and in her place appeared a

woman--loyal, intrepid, resigned, ready for every devotion, for every

sacrifice, even of the oldest and most cherished affections of her

heart.

M. Maubars was undeceived; it was with an expression evidently of

extreme surprise and marked discontent that he fell back a few steps

and bent his whitened head: “I persist in hoping, mademoiselle, that

you will still reflect,” said he, in a tone impressed with remarkable

coldness. “Otherwise, you understand, without doubt, our projects must

undergo same modification. Consider that such obstinacy on your part

is a most unhappy precedent for the well-being and peace of your

future household.”

At this brutal menace, at this the saddest moment, perhaps, of her

life, Valentine became still paler and her look more sombre, but she

neither trembled nor flinched, accepting without a murmur and in

silence all the bitterness of the duty she had just embraced. Only, by

an old and tender habit of childhood, with the remains of a hope

perhaps, her gaze, more eloquent and earnest than ever, was fixed upon

Alfred--the friend, the betrothed, whom, for so long a time, she had

been accustomed to consult in any sadness or disquietude. But Alfred,

before the mute anguish of this regard, was not moved. He bore with

his father an air of gravity and dissatisfaction.

“I am sure you will reflect upon this, Valentine,” he simply said. 229

“You see my father counsels you as a true friend, having only in view

your happiness and the preservation of your fortune.”

Then Valentine turned slowly and sadly, without allowing a single tear

to escape her, or a single sob that was then swelling in her breast.

“My good Monsieur Morin, my resolution is taken,” said she, her voice

at first trembling, but becoming steadier as she spoke. “All the

reflections that I could make would only serve to show me my duty,

more distinct, more exact, more sacred. In two months, if you wish, we

will hear what property had better be sold, and choose a suitable

abode for our asylum.... Now, gentlemen, our council is ended, I

believe.... I thank you one and all for having accorded me your advice

and the support of your presence.”

All the assistants understood that the courageous young girl must be

left alone to suffer, alone to weep. They rose simultaneously, bowed

to her profoundly with admiration and respect, and went out. Alfred

wore already a resigned look of sadness, and M. Maubars betrayed his

irritation in his brusque movements and unsteady walk. The echoes of

their steps died in the distance, and around the orphan in her

mourning reigned only solitude and silence.

“It is all over; they have said it,” she murmured then, and let fall

the pent-up tears. “But no! it was to be.... I wished it also. It was

my duty--why could he not so understand it? Oh! Adeline told me the

truth. God is good to have enlightened me while I am still single and

free. Poor mamma, you could not have imagined this. So much the

better, for you would have wept so bitterly.”

Speaking thus, she wept and wept, hiding her face in her hands, and

sobbing as if her heart would break. The hours flew by, night came,

and the November rain fell on the windows, the November wind shook the

shutters in the little parlor, formerly so tightly closed, so bright,

and peopled with good friends, but now so solemn and deserted, and

where the orphan alone must suffer and weep.

IV.

Valentine held firm to her resolution; her soul, so loyal and pure,

was of those where the courage of devotion, and the love of duty

accomplished, united to double the price of the humble virtues,

submission, gentleness, and tenderness. To a very polite and

respectful letter from Alfred, in which the young man begged her to

let him know if she still persisted in her intentions, she replied in

simple terms, releasing him from his engagement, and telling him that

henceforward she should devote herself to the austere and honorable

task bequeathed her by her adopted mother. Notwithstanding her orders

to the contrary, one of her best friends forced her way into the

house, no doubt with good intentions. It was the lively and joyous

Adeline de Malers, in whom, in spite of much prudence and worldly

experience, tenderness and benevolence were not wanting, and who would

sincerely have desired to conquer what she considered the obstinacy

and blindness of her poor dear friend. Adeline took care to bring

precious arguments with her to plead the important marriage cause: she

led her two dear little children by the hand, with their innocent

babbling and sweet smiles, the source of so much delight and maternal

felicity. However, Valentine did not yield; her soul was steeped and

her resolution strengthened by the secret prayers and solitude of her 230

affliction.

“My dear,” said Adeline to her at the end of her arguments, “if you

grow poor by this foolish liberality, and if, half-ruined, you are

obliged to give up M. Alfred Maubars, you will be an old maid, I warn

you.”

“I have always been a happy young girl, I can be a tranquil and

contented old maid. Happiness has no age,” replied Valentine, with her

calm and tender smile.

“My dear, the obliged are generally ungrateful; gratitude from the

poor is a rare and uncertain commodity.”

“I know it; but the satisfaction of an accomplished duty is immense,

and the grace of God infinite. Besides, I shall be so happy to realize

the intentions and to continue the work of my mother, who is in

heaven.”

Adeline shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of impatience. “But your

poor old folks won’t live for ever, and when the last one has

disappeared, your work will be finished, and you will be alone.

Besides, in devoting yourself in the flower of your years to their

catarrhs and their rheumatisms, do you know, my poor child, what you

renounce and what you lose? Come here, Bertha, my treasure, kiss me,

Max, you dear little angel.... Look at them now, you wicked little

obstinate one, and tell me, as you examine them well, if all the

happiness, all the glory of a woman, does not consist in raising,

caring for, and cherishing such charming little loves.”

At these words, Valentine drew the little ones to her; kissed each of

their pretty white foreheads, and laid her hand gently on their blonde

heads; for she had at heart that tender and deep love of children that

God has given innocent young girls, in order that one day their most

holy duty may become their truest and sweetest happiness. And for an

instant perhaps the caressing look that she fixed upon them became

more tender, deeper, and more tearful; she stooped then a moment

toward the earth; then resumed her serenity, and replied peaceably and

with resignation:

“God has given me my children--children, Adeline, who have great need

of me, for they are suffering, poor, and feeble. Besides, my good

friend, when the last of these poor old people shall have gone, there

will remain to me the foundation, the hospital. I will open it then to

real children, to young and poor orphans. In this way, I too will have

my family--my family blessed by God.”

“It is fanaticism, truly, and I begin to despair of your future, my

dear friend,” cried Adeline, surprised and discontented to find her

overtures so energetically repulsed. “But, then, why do you persist in

remaining in the world, that will only have, believe me, disdain for

your heroism, coldness and raillery for your generous devotion? Why do

you not at once adopt the cornette and serge of the Sister of

Charity?”

“Because, thus far, God has not so commanded me,” replied the

courageous child, modest and resigned. “My duty lies near these old

women; here my place is marked out; I have nothing else to do but

understand, adore, and obey. And since I have friends among my people,

I esteem and love them also. Why should these friends abandon me

because a sacred duty claims a portion of my time and my strength, and

I must consecrate myself to it? My destiny is no doubt changed, but my

heart will never change, and from those I should have loved my memory

will never be detached; no rival affection will banish their remembrance, 231

and for them, always, I shall be Valentine.”

Adeline took leave soon after, half-angry, half-impressed, declaring

she could understand nothing of the character of such an obstinate

girl, who could hide such real perversity, such inexplicable tenacity,

under a manner so timid and so gentle. After her departure, the pupil

of Madame de Guers read for the last time the solemn message to

Alfred, and finished the reply she had already commenced. Not a tear

sullied the page whereon slowly and courageously she traced her

farewell. Not a start of tenderness or grief agitated the poor little

white hand, that so heroically sealed the decree of separation,

renunciation, and forgetfulness. Only when she had finished, when

there was nothing more to propose or hope for, when the old Marianne,

carrying the letter, had disappeared in the fog, near the neighboring

quay, she gently approached, with her eyes full of tears, the chimney

where the noble and tender face of her second mother, the friend of

her youthful years, smiled on her as if to encourage her from under

her light glass covering. Before she pressed her trembling lips on the

little portrait, she smiled sweetly through her tears.

“It is all finished, mamma,” murmured she. “I will do as you

would--hereafter live only for God, and for his poor. You have told me

more than once that such is the lot of the elect. I believe you, dear

mamma; I love you and I bless you.”

And as the choice of the young girl was made, she lived, as she had

said, devoted and valiant, active and resigned. The notary soon came

to the conclusion, and made it known to her, that all her resources

would be needed for the support of her old people. But what would she

have done all alone in the dear old house, much too large for her by

herself, and so full of remembrances, rendered so bitter in silence

and solitude? Valentine understood what she had to do, and easily

resigned herself. The old and peaceable abode, a little enlarged,

received on one story the old pensioners of the little hospital, while

the young protectress reserved on another her bedroom, her little

parlor, and her library: a modest apartment filled with pious relics

and sweet and humble souvenirs. And from this moment her life was

entirely consecrated to her retreat, to God and the poor; from this

moment, too, she openly relinquished all hope of any new situation,

any other destiny; and the circle of friends and acquaintances of the

little town of C---- ceased to include her among the marriageable.