Il est des esprits puissants
Qui dirigent les planètes,
Qui font voler les tempètes
Et s'allumer les volcans,
Qui règnent sur l'air et l'onde,
Qui creusent le lit des mers,
Qui règlent le cours du monde
Et prennent soin des déserts,
Qui sèment l'or et le sable,
Lis et roses dans les champs;
Et dans le nombre innombrable
De ces esprits bienfaisants,
Il est un ange adorable
Que Dieu fit pour les enfants,
Un ange à l'aile vermeille,
Une céleste merveille,
Du Paradis le bijou,
Le petit Ange Joujou,
De l'ange gardien le frère;
Mais l'un guide l'âme aux cieux,
Et l'autre enchante la terre
Et ne préside qu'aux jeux.
Il inventa la Poupée,
Tant d'objets d'amusement
Dont l'enfance est occupée,
Qui portent son nom charmant.
Avant l'aurore il se lève;
Riant, il s'en vint du ciel
Dans l'Eden jouer près d'Eve
Avec le petit Abel.
Il fait les boutons de rose,
Les colliers de perle et d'or,
Les colibris qu'il dépose
Dans les fleurs du Labrador.
Il n'est merveilleuse chose
Qu'il n'ait faite ou fasse encor;
Soufflant sur l'eau savonneuse,
Grâce à ses enchantements.
Brille un palais de diamants
A rendre une reine heureuse;
Il fait le baume et le miel,
De son souffle nait la brise
Il a planté le cytise
Et dessiné l'arc-en-ciel.
Passant du Gange en Norvége,
Il se mêle au beau cortége
Des cygnes éblouissants,
Et sème avec ses doigts blancs
Les jolis flocons de neige
Pour amuser les enfants.
Et ces concerts des campagnes,
Cette musique des bois,
Qui charment vals et montagnes,
De notre ange c'est la voix.
Ah! que cet ange nous aime,
Et que ses pouvoirs son beaux!
Pouvoirs qu'il tient de Dieu même:
Il veille au nid des oiseaux;
Il leur porte du ciel même
Leur vêtement radieux
Et deux perles pour leurs yeux.
Il est de toutes nos fêtes;
Il tient pour nous toujours prêtes
Des coupes sans aucun fiel,
Et grâce enfin à ses charmes,
On dit que toutes nos larmes
Ne sont que gouttes de miel.
Puis quand les dernières heures
Sonnent aux pieux enfants,
On le retrouve aux demeures
Où sont les saint Innocents,
Jouant avec leur couronne
Et leur palme de martyrs,
Bénissant Dieu, qui leur donne
Tout le ciel pour leurs plaisirs.
After much hope deferred and sickness of heart, Maurice, towards the
end of 1834, received a permanent engagement at Stanislas. It was by
no means a lucrative one, but it sufficed to save him from the
much-dreaded dependence upon others. In November of this year Eugenie
began to write her journal, since famous, "A mon bien-aimé frère
Maurice." This she designed to forward to him at intervals as an
encouragement and solace, to remind him of ties still existing in the
beloved home of his boyhood.
A few extracts from this journal will serve to show the graceful style
of Mdlle. de Guérin as a writer, her keen power of observation, her
ability to find enjoyment and food for reflection in the most trifling
things:--
"_November 15th, 1834._
"Since you wish it, my dear brother, I am about to continue this
little journal, which you like so much. But as I want paper I
serve myself with a stitched copy-book designed for poetry, of
which I am taking out only the title; thread and leaves all remain
there, and you shall have it, bulky as it is, on the first
opportunity.
"_17th._--Three letters since yesterday--three very great
pleasures, for I love letters so much, and those who write these,
that is Louise, Mimi, and Félicité. This dear Mimi tells me
charming and sweet things about our separation, about her return,
her _ennui_, for she is wearied so far from me as I am wearied
without her. Every moment I see I feel that she wants me,
especially at night, when I am accustomed to hear her breathe into
my ear. This little sound makes me sleep. Not to hear it makes me
think sadly. I think of death, which makes such silence all around
us; also an absence. These thoughts of the night come and mingle
with those of the day. What maladies they speak of, what deaths!
The clock of Andillac has sounded only knells these days. It is
the malignant fever which makes its ravages every year. We are all
mourning a young woman of your age, the most beautiful, the most
virtuous of the parish, carried off some days ago. She left an
infant at the breast; poor little one! It was Marianne de Gillard.
Last Sunday I went again to press the hand of one at the point of
death eighteen years old. She recognised me, the poor young girl,
said a word to me, and resumed her prayer. I wished to speak to
her, but knew not what to say; the dying speak better than we. She
was buried on Monday. What reflections to make on these fresh
tombs. O my God, how quickly people depart from this world! In the
evening, when I am alone, all these forms of the dead visit me
again. I have no fear, but my thoughts are all mournful, and the
world seems to me as sad as a tomb. I have said, however, that
these letters have given me pleasure. Oh! it is very true; my
heart is not mute in the midst of these agonies, and feels only
more keenly what life brings it. Your letter, then, has given me a
gleam of joy--nay, a veritable happiness--by the good things with
which it is filled. At length your future begins to dawn; I see
for you a calling, a social position, a point of support in real
life. God be praised! It is what I desired the most in the world
for you and me, for my future is joined to yours; they are
brothers. I have had beautiful dreams on this subject; I will,
perhaps, tell you them. For the moment, adieu; I must write to
Mimi.
"_18th._--I am furious with the grey cat. This naughty animal
has just carried off a little pigeon that I was trying to
re-animate by the corner of the fire. It was beginning to revive,
poor creature! I wanted to tame it--it would have loved me; and,
behold! all the fond hope scraunched by a cat. How many are the
disappointments of life! This event, and all those of the day,
have happened in the kitchen. I remain there all the morning and a
part of the evening while I am without Mimi. It is necessary to
look after the cook. Papa sometimes comes down, and I read to him
by the oven, or the corner of the fire, some pieces from 'The
Antiquities of the Anglo-Saxon Church,' This great book astonished
Pierril. 'What words there are there!' he exclaimed. This child is
quite droll. One evening he asked me if the soul was immortal;
afterwards what was a philosopher. We were on great questions, as
you see. Upon my replying that a philosopher was a person wise and
learned, 'Then, mademoiselle,' said he, 'you are a philosopher.'
This was said with an air of _naïveté_ and of freshness which
might have flattered Socrates, but which made me laugh so much
that my gravity as catechist went for the night. This child has
left us lately, to his great regret; the term was up on St.
Brice's day. Now he goes with a little pig seeking truffles. If he
comes by here I shall ask him if he sees in me yet a philosophic
look.
"With whom do you think I spent this morning by the corner of the
kitchen fire? With Plato. I durst not say it, but he came under my
notice, and I wanted to make his acquaintance. I am only at the
earliest pages. He seems to me to be admirable, this Plato; but I
find in him a singular idea. He places health before beauty in the
list of the good things which God gives us. If he had consulted a
woman Plato would not have written that! Do you think it good?
Remembering that _I am a philosopher_, I am rather of his opinion.
When one is very ill in bed, one would willingly sacrifice
complexion or beautiful eyes in order to recover health and enjoy
sunshine. When I was a child I should have wished to be beautiful;
I dreamed only of beauty, because I said to myself, Mamma would
love me more. Thanks to God, that age of infancy has passed, and I
enjoy no other beauty than that of the soul. Perhaps even in that
I am a child, as formerly: I should wish to resemble the angels.
That also might be displeasing to God, for it is also that one
might be loved more. What things come to me if it were not
necessary to leave you! But my chaplet, I must say it. The night
has come; I like to finish the day in prayer.
"_20th._--I love the snow. This white expanse is something
celestial. The mire, the naked earth displeases me, saddens me;
to-day I perceive only the trace of the roads and the footmarks of
the little birds. Softly as they alight, they leave their little
traces, which make a thousand figures upon the snow. It is pretty
to see the little red claws, which as crayons of coral design
them. The winter has its beautiful things, its adorning. We find
charms everywhere when we learn to see them. _God sheds grace
and beauty everywhere._ I must now go to see what there is
pleasant at the corner of the kitchen-fire; sparks if I wish. This
is only a little good-morning I am saying to the snow and to you
on jumping out of bed.
"It has been necessary to prepare an extra dish for Sauveur
Roquier, who has come to see us. It was ham, cured in sugar, over
which the poor boy licked his lips. Good things do not often come
to his mouth; it is therefore that I wish to treat him well. It
seems to me that it is to the destitute we should give
attention--humanity, charity tell us so.
"No reading to-day. I have made a hood for a little one, which has
taken all my time. But provided one works, whether it be with the
head or the fingers, it is quite equal in the eyes of God, who
takes account of every work done in His name. I hope, then, that
my hood will take the place of a charity. I have given my time,
together with a little skin from my fingers which the needle has
taken off, as well as a thousand interesting lines that I should
have _been_ able to read. The day before yesterday papa brought me
from Clairac 'Ivanhoe' and 'The Age of Louis XIV.' Here is
provision for some of the long winter evenings.
"It is I who am the reader, but by fits and starts. It is
sometimes a key that is wanted, a thousand things, often myself,
and the book is closed for a moment. Ah! Mimin, when will you
return to help the poor housekeeper, by whom you are wanted every
moment? Have I told you that yesterday I had news of her at the
market of C----, where I went? What yawns I left upon that poor
balcony! At last the letter of Mimi arrived, quite on purpose to
relieve my weariness, and it was the only pleasant thing I saw at
C----.
"I put nothing here yesterday; a blank page is better than
trivialities, and I should not have been able to say anything
else. I was tired, I was sleepy. To-day it is much better; I have
seen the snow come and go. Since I got my dinner a fine sun has
shone; no more snow; at present the black, the ugly reappear. What
shall I see to-morrow morning? Who knows? The face of the world
changes so quickly!"
"_24th._--How beautiful must be the heaven of heavens! This
is what I have been thinking during the time I have just spent in
contemplation under a most beautiful winter sky. It is my practice
to open my window before going to bed to see what sort of weather
it is, and, if fine, to enjoy it a moment. To-night I looked
longer than usual; it was so ravishing, this beautiful night. But
for the fear of taking cold I should be there still. I thought of
God, who has made our prison so radiant; I thought of the saints,
who have all these beauteous stars beneath their feet; I thought
of you, who were, perhaps, looking up to them like me. I could
have stayed there easily all night; however, it was necessary to
shut the window to all the beauty outside, and to close the eyes
under curtains. Eran has brought me to-night two letters from
Louise. They are charming, ravishing to the mind, soul, and heart,
and all for me. I know not why I am not transported, intoxicated
with friendship. God knows, however, that I love it!
"No place in the world is so pleasant to me as home. Oh! the happy
home! How I grieve for you, poor exile, so far from it, seeing
only your kindred in thought, being unable to bid good morning or
good night, living a stranger, having father, brother, sisters,
not living with you but elsewhere! All that is sad, but I cannot
desire anything else for you. We cannot have you, but I hope to
see you again, and that consoles me; a thousand times I think of
that, and foresee how happy we shall be."
"_29th._-- ... Oh! how sweet it is, when the rain is heard
pattering, to be by the corner of one's fire, tongs in one's hand,
making sparks! This was my amusement just now. I am very fond of
it; sparks are so pretty! They are the flowers of the chimney.
Really, there are charming things going on about the embers, and,
when I am not occupied, I amuse myself in watching the
phantasmagoria of the hearth. There are a thousand little
hearth-forms coming, going, dilating, changing, disappearing; now
angels, now horned demons, children, old women, butterflies, dogs,
sparrows. One sees a little of everything in the firebrand. I
remember one figure, bearing an expression of heavenly suffering,
which seemed to me to depict a soul in purgatory. I was struck by
it, and should like to have had a painter with me. There was never
a vision more perfect. Notice the logs burning and you will agree
with me that there are beautiful things, and that unless we are
blind we ought not to find time tedious beside a fire. Listen
especially to that little whistle which sometimes comes from below
the burning coal, like a voice that sings. Nothing is more sweet
or pure; one would say it was some very diminutive spirit of fire
that sings."
"_Last day of December._--Christmas is come; beautiful festival,
the one that I love the most of all, which brings me as much joy
as to the shepherds of Bethlehem. Truly, the whole soul sings at
this glad advent of God, which is announced on all sides by carols
and the pretty nadalet. In Paris nothing can give you the idea of
what Christmas is. You have not even the midnight mass. We all
went to it, with papa at our head, by an enchanting night. Never
was there a more beautiful sky than that midnight one, so that
papa from time to time put his head from under his cloak to look
up. The ground was white with hoar-frost, but we were not cold;
the air, besides, was warmed before us by the torches that our
servants took to light us. It was charming, I assure you, and I
wished I could have seen you walking along, like us, towards the
church, through roads bordered with little bushes, white, as if in
full blossom. The frost makes beautiful flowers. We saw one sprig
so pretty that we wanted to make a nosegay of it for the blessed
sacrament, but it melted in our hands. All flowers are
short-lived. I much regret my bouquet; it was sad to see it melt
and disappear drop by drop.... Here then are my last thoughts, for
I shall write nothing more this year. In some hours it will be
finished; we shall begin another. Oh! how fast time flies! Alas!
Alas! Would one not say that I am regretting it? My God, no; I
regret neither time, nor what it takes away from us. It is not
worth while to throw one's affections into the torrent. But the
empty, careless days, lost as regards heaven, these are what cause
regret and make us think upon life. Dear brother, where shall I be
on this same day, at this same time, this instant, next year?
Shall I be here or elsewhere? Here below, or above? God knows; and
here I am at the gate of the future, resigning myself to whatever
can issue from it. To-morrow I shall pray that you may be happy;
for papa, for Mimi, for all whom I love. It is the day of gifts. I
am going to take mine to heaven. I draw everything from thence;
for, truly, on earth I find but few things to my taste. The longer
I live here, the less I enjoy it; and accordingly I see, without
any regret, the approach of years, which are so many steps towards
the other world. It is neither pain nor sorrow which makes one
think thus, do not suppose it. I should tell you if it were; it is
the home-sickness which takes hold of every soul that sets itself
to thinking of heaven. The hour strikes, the last that I shall
hear while writing to you. I would have it without end, like all
that gives pleasure. How many hours have been marked by that old
clock, that dear piece of furniture that has seen so many of us
pass, without ever going away, like a kind of eternity! I am fond
of it, because it has sounded all the hours of my life, the most
beautiful when I did not listen to them. I can remember that my
crib stood at its foot, and I used to amuse myself by watching the
hands move. Time amuses us then; I was four years old.... My lamp
is going out; I leave you. Thus ends my year, beside a dying lamp."
"The little Morvonnais, her mother tells me, sends me a kiss. What
shall I give her in return for a thing so pure, so sweet as a
child's kiss? It seems to me as if a lily had touched my cheek."
Glad would I run, my child, at thy soft call,
Saying: "I love thee, I would like to kiss thee;"
And when thy little arms, like two white wings,
Thou openest wide to embrace me!
I have white lambs that often me caress,
A dove as well lays on my lips its beak;
But when a child doth give me soft embrace,
'Tis as a lily rested on my cheek;
Filling with balmy innocence my face,
And making all my life more pure and mild;
Pleasure ineffable, celestial grace!
Who would not have thy kisses, blue-eyed child?
"A daughter ought to be so sweet a thing to her father! We should
be to them almost as the angels are to God. Between brothers it is
different; here there is less consideration and more freedom."
Under date May 13, 1837, she writes:--"A sorrow. We have got Trilby
poorly--so ill that the poor beast will die. I was fond of my pretty
little dog. I remember, too, that you used to be fond of her and to
caress her, calling her _little rogue_. All kinds of memories
attach themselves to Trilbette, and make me regret her. Small and
great affections--everything leaves us and dies in its turn. The heart
is like a tree surrounded with dead leaves....
"I have just had a young pigeon brought to me, which I am going to
keep, and tame, and caress. It will replace Trilby. This poor heart
always wants something to love; when it loses one object it takes
another. I notice this, and that we keep loving without interruption,
which shows our destination to eternal love. Nothing helps me better
to understand heaven than to picture it to myself as the place of
love; for if even here we cannot love for a moment without happiness,
what will it be to love for ever?"
Maurice was, meanwhile, stung with the feeling that his life was a
failure. He, indeed, resigned himself with a sense of hopeless
indifference to his lot. It was in bitterness of soul, if with
conscientious purpose, that he continued the monotonous, and to him
uncongenial, task of teaching, when the bright dream of his youth had
been so different--of poetry and literature, with his helpful sister
Eugénie, if not a still dearer one, by his side. How different the
stern reality! He reproached himself for his want of success. Entries
in his journal at this time show the agony of soul of this sensitive
plant, destined to live in the world's stony places. Here is one of
June, 1835:--
"What makes me at times despair of myself is the intensity of my
suffering for little things and the for-ever-blind and aimless
purposes to which I put my moral powers. To stir a grain of sand I
use energy that might suffice to force a stone up to the
mountain-tops. I could better bear the heaviest burdens than this
light, almost impalpable, dust that clings to me. I perish
secretly day by day. Life escapes me by invisible stings. I am
weary of what surrounds me. I know neither where I would live nor
in what profession; but I detest mine, which is spoiling me and
making me wretched. It upsets at every instant the little
philosophy that I can glean in free and tranquil hours, and vexes
me with men still children. How I hate myself in these miseries!
How I long to spring upon some shore of liberty, pushing back with
my foot the odious bark which has carried me."
During all this trying period the love of Eugénie for her brother did
not wane, nor did her confidence in him, in his genius and ultimate
success, become abated. Troubled as she herself was with mental
conflicts, with a constitutional melancholy which made her peculiarly
sensitive to the pangs of bereavement, to the sorrows of all around
her, and all the weariness of daily life, she never forgot her
brother. Her journal, written as it was to him, discloses a life of
the most tender solicitude and most pathetic interest on the part of a
sister towards a brother on record. She poured out to him her heart's
most inmost feelings. If his correspondence flagged, she became
anxious, and, as it has been seen, tenderly expostulated, lovingly
upbraided, gently warned. A new source of anxiety to her at this time
was what she conceived to be a growing indifference on the part of her
brother to religion. It appears that Maurice had for a time lost the
devotion of his youth. His brooding melancholy and want of success had
so far embittered his spirit that a cold and cynical philosophy was
fast taking the place of his early faith and love. His long silences
troubled his sister, and she braced herself to helpful and loving
counsel. Opening her journal almost at hazard, we find such entries as
the following:--"When every one is occupied and I am not needed, I
retreat early and come here to write, read, or pray. I put here both
what passes in my soul and in the house, and in that way we shall find
day by day all the past. For me it is nothing, and I would not write
it, but I say to myself, 'Maurice will be very glad to see what we are
doing whilst he is far away, and thus enter into the family life,' and
I mark it for you."
Again, she writes: "I have just passed the night writing to you. The
day has replaced the candle, so that it is hardly worth while to go to
bed. Oh! if papa knew it! How quickly it has passed, my brother, this
night spent in writing to you! The dawn appeared whilst I believed it
midnight; it was past three o'clock, and I had seen many stars pass,
for from my table I see the sky, and from time to time I look at it
and consult it; and it seems to me that an angel dictates to me. From
whence, except from above, can come to me so many things tender,
ennobling, sweet, true, pure, with which my heart is filled as I speak
to you? Yes, God gives me them, and I send them to you. May my letter
do you good. It will come on Tuesday. I have written it to-night so
that I can give it to the postman in the morning and save a day. I was
so drawn to come to you to divert and strengthen you in the state of
feebleness and weariness in which I see you. But I do not see it; I
divine it after your letters, and some words of Felicité. Would to God
I could see and know what torments you, then I should know where to
apply the balm, whilst I now place it by chance. Oh! how I long for
letters from you! Write to me; speak, explain, show yourself, that I
may know what you suffer. Sometimes I think it is only a little of
that black melancholy which we are both liable to, and which makes us
so sad when it spreads in the heart."
The apparent indifference of her brother sometimes, indeed, caused
Eugénie to neglect her journal and her correspondence. He endeavoured
to bear his troubles as he did his poverty, in silence; and when he
was unable for want of the necessary means to travel, to spend his
vacations at Le Cayla, the real cause was unknown, and was not
unnaturally attributed to a waning affection. A letter from Eugénie,
after a visit to Rayssac, where she had last been with him four years
before, contains some charming pictures:--
"_September 6th, 1836._
"It is a week since I came down from the mountains, quite sad,
thinking of Louise, my heart full of our friendship, and with
regrets for our separation. What it costs to go away from a
friend, when we have found so much happiness together! To say
adieu is a word that makes us weep, which kills. Fenelon is quite
right in saying that friendship which makes much happiness for
life, gives also inexpressible pain. We felt this, Louise and I.
It is from their depth that the sweetest things of life have their
bitterness. I learn it, I feel it continually more. What is to be
done about it? To resign oneself, to habituate oneself to the
course of the world which passes so changingly.
"My brother, I have thought of you everywhere among the mountains,
under the linden trees, in the little salon, in the gallery, where
they have made me read from your letters, those dear letters which
M. de Bayne preserves with other precious papers. I believe you
would give him much pleasure in sending him others from time to
time, telling him now and then what passes in the literary world.
This brave man especially loves you. The name 'M. Maurice' ought
to be in his heart, for he has it often upon his lips. This
affection ought to please you; I take pleasure in it, inasmuch as
it apparently confers something upon me as your sister. In short,
I know not why Mons. de Bayne treats me in so distinguished a
manner. He used to come and talk with me of his great authors, of
his great thoughts; we conversed about all kinds of books--history,
philosophy, legends, poetry. That was a course of literary
conversations for the evening, for it was in the evening that we
talked, he in his armchair, the back to the window, I upon the
large sofa, in the place marked by the countess; Leontine at the
end, Louise upon a chair near me, and Criquet at her feet or on
her lap. You should have seen also the round table with books,
pamphlets, journals, stockings heaped up round the chandelier and
below the shadow where the cricket used to come. It was the same
as it was four years ago, except that you were not there. Louise
is not at all changed. She has the same air of youth, the same
gaiety, the same eye of fire. What a glance! I could wish that it
had fallen upon Raphael. For myself, I have in my soul a charming
tableau of it and a true one.
"I was cut off from it all at once by the arrival of Miou, my
scholar, a little girl, sweet, pretty, and foolish according to
papa, who does not like her slowness, which makes him judge
sharply my poor _protégé_. A hail came the day before yesterday to
carry off our grapes. It is a pity to see the poor bruised vines
which promised an abundant harvest. They expected no less than
seventy casks; rely upon nothing in this world!
"To-morrow we expect the Reynauds, great and small. Papa longs
infinitely to embrace Auguste, his wife, and the children. I had
this pleasure the first, on my way to Albi. Judge of the
happiness, and how the friendship of Felicité was soon formed. The
appearance of friends that we had at first sight surprised every
one--those who knew not that we already knew each other in heart.
I found our cousin good, simple, friendly, loving you much, which
makes me love her not a little. We talked of you: Tell me about
Maurice; what is he doing? Does he think about us? When will he at
length come? I have many other questions to ask her, which I will
do one of these days when I have more leisure. It rains,
unfortunately, which will prevent our going out, and sitting under
some oak tree, where it is good to tell our secrets.
"If we had you also, what happiness! Let us not think of it, since
thinking of it only brings us more regrets. However, you remember
that I wish for you, that we wish for you, next year. Arrange
accordingly, or tell us that you do not wish to come. I see
nothing that can detain you; but from now you have a year to
prepare. Prepare, or rather present yourself without hesitation. A
little courage, come; the courageous prevail. Think of the
pleasure you will do us, of that you will give to papa, the dear
father who loves you so much that we should be jealous, if we had
not also our share of tenderness. The heart of a father is
infinite."
But shortly a still further source of anxiety as to Maurice began to
afflict the Le Cayla circle. His constitution, never strong, had been
very much undermined by the privations and hardships he had undergone.
He was compelled for a time to give up his duties; and after
struggling through the winter to resort to his native air, spending a
considerable part of the year--1837--once more in the dear old home.
Here confidences were completely restored, and after a time the sweet
change and the loving care of his sisters brought about a more
favourable condition, and Maurice's health seemed reassured.
His life had also recently received another stimulating motive.
Maurice had never been without friends, and the entrée into good
Parisian society, where his distinguished, if pensive, appearance,
engaging manners, and powers of conversation had made him a favourite.
Here he had made the acquaintance of a young orphan lady, of good
family and fortune, called Caroline de Gervain, who lived under the
guardianship of an aunt. A mutual attachment sprang up between them,
and the autumn of this year was enlivened for Le Cayla by a visit from
Mdlle. de Gervain and her guardian.
Upon her brother's partial restoration to health, the chief care of
Eugénie in regard to him was his disregard of all religious duties. On
the day of his return to Paris, in January, 1838, she writes in her
journal: "I enter again for the first time this room where you were
only this morning. Oh, how sad is the chamber of an absent one! We see
tokens of you everywhere, but find no part of the real person. Here
are your shoes under the bed, the table quite filled, the mirror
suspended from the nail, the books which you read yesterday evening
before going to sleep, and I who kissed you, touched you, looked at
you! What is this world where everything disappears? Maurice, my dear
Maurice, oh!
"When you had gone I went to church, where I could pray and weep at my
ease. What do you do, who never pray, when you are sorrowful, when
your heart is bruised? For me, I feel that I have need of a
consolation more than human, that it is necessary to have God for a
friend."
On learning of his arrival she writes (February 8): "Oh! letters;
letters from Paris, one of yours! You arrived well, happy, and
welcome. God be praised! I have that only in my heart. I say to
everybody, 'Maurice has written to us: he has finished his journey
safely, had fine weather,' and a hundred things which come to me. A
beautiful day, fine weather, sweet air, the clear sky. We only need to
see the leaves to believe that it is the month of May. This radiant
nature soothes the spirit, disposes it for some happiness. It was
impossible, I thought, in my walk this morning, that something was not
going to happen, and I have your letter. I did not deceive myself.
These letters, this writing, what pleasure it gives! How the heart
fastens there and is sustained. But after a while one becomes sad
again, the joy falls, regret rekindles and finds that a letter is only
a little thing in the place of some person. We are never satisfied;
all our joys are mutilated. God wills it, God wills it thus that the
better part of us which yearns shall only be satisfied in heaven.
There shall be happiness in its fulness, there the eternal reunion."