"A letter from Caroline. What happiness to know you are so much
loved, so cared for ... God be praised. I am tranquil. I see in
all this a providential arrangement which makes everything for
your good. And then you do not love the good God. His cares for
you shine to my eyes like diamonds. See, my brother, all that
comes to solace your poor position, these unhoped-for succours,
this family affection, this mother, this sister, more than sister,
so loving, so sweet, so beautiful, who promises you so much
happiness. Do you not see something there, some Divine hand that
orders your life? At present I hope for you a future better than
the past--that past which has caused us so much suffering. But we
all have our time of trouble, misfortune, servitude in Egypt,
before the manna and the calm."
Again:--"Is the world in which you move rich enough for your needs?
Maurice, if I could make you enter into some of my thoughts thereon,
to show you what I believe and what I learn from devotional books,
those beautiful reflections of the Gospel! If I could see you a
Christian I would give life and everything for that."
After returning to Paris Maurice suffered a sharp relapse, upon his
partial recovery from which his marriage was fixed to take place in
November. Eugénie was to go to Paris to be present. Before departing
she went to Rayssac to spend a few days with her dear friend, Louise
de Bayne, who had recently lost her father. A few tender words in her
journal upon saying farewell show that her character as a friend was
no less true than as a sister: "At seven o'clock I embraced her, and
left her all in tears. What affection there was in her good-bye, that
pressure of the hand, the '_Come again!_' the utterance choked by
tears! Poor, dear Louise, I have had the courage to leave her and not
to weep at all.... But what matter? I love as much as another; what
comes from the heart is worth as much as what flows from the eyes. But
this tender Louise loves and weeps. It is because she is very sorry to
lose me; she has need of a friend. She told me her trials, her plans,
her prospects, perhaps her illusions. Women always have some
illusion."
The journey to Paris and a stay there of some months was quite an
event in the quiet life of Mdlle. de Guérin. On September 29, she
writes in her journal: "Adieu, my little room; adieu my Cayla; adieu
my copybook, which I will take with me, but it will go in my trunk."
In the interval between this time and the following month of April the
journal was, however, discontinued, or has not been found. From
letters written during this period to her father and friends, we have
pleasing glimpses of her life in Paris. During her visit there, as the
guest of the aunt of Mdlle. de Gervain, she was welcomed by the best
society, and spent much time in visiting the many places of interest,
and making the acquaintance of an hitherto unknown world. Her one
source of anxiety was the continued enfeebled condition of her
brother's health. Writing to her friend Louise, she says, alluding to
this: "When I am with others I imitate their liveliness, but at church
and alone I have my own thoughts. I have everything I could wish for;
they all love me here; I ought to be happy, but I am weary in spirit,
and I say to myself that happiness is nowhere in this world."
The wedding was duly celebrated with much rejoicing and gaiety, and
Eugénie wrote a charming account of it to her father, giving all
details, as only a woman can, and declaring that all had passed as
happily as at the marriage of Cana. She speaks in terms of loving
praise of Maurice's "angel of a wife," and does not forget to say that
upon the marriage morn Caro read to her husband a chapter of the
_Imitation_.
The interval between December and the succeeding July was spent by
Eugénie partly at Paris with her brother, and partly in visiting
friends at Nevers and other places. She was deeply solicitous for her
brother and his young wife. This was not without cause, for the young
bride had married a dying man.
During her stay at Nevers, in April, she recommences her journal to
her brother, which he was never to read:--
"Is it eight days, eight months, eight years, eight ages? I know
not how long, but it seems endless in my weariness since I left
you, my brother, my poor invalid. Is it well with you? Is it
better? Is it worse?... What painful ignorance, and how difficult
to bear, this ignorance of heart, the only thing which makes us
suffer, or which makes us suffer more. It is beautiful weather.
One feels everywhere the sun and the presence of flowers, which
would do you good. Springtime warmth would be more curative for
you than any medicine. I say this in hope, alone in my hermit's
chamber, with a chair, cross, and little table, under a little
window where I write. From time to time I look at the sky and hear
the bells and the passers-by in the streets of Nevers, the sad.
Does Paris spoil me, make me gloomy anywhere else? Never was there
a city more desolate, dark, and wearying, notwithstanding the
_charmes_ that inhabit it, Marie and her amiable family. I have
tried everything, even drawing my distaff from its case where it
has been since my departure from Le Cayla. It recalled to me the
story of the shepherd, who, arriving at the Court, kept there the
chest containing his crook, and sometimes found pleasure in
opening it. I have also found pleasure in again seeing my distaff
and spinning a little. But I spun so many things besides!"