"Dear EugÉnie,—You will perhaps be astonished to see these two lines at the beginning of my letter. It is, so to speak, the text from which I wish to draw in order to better express the tender love that I bear you. The sentiment which inspired in Paul those words towards Virginia was not more sincere than mine. It is particularly to you that I give the Life of Voltaire. You will see there the genius and the perversity of that man, this coryphÉe of impiety, who put at the end of each letter: Let us crush the infamous thing, that is to say the Catholic religion. For me, I shall not cease to put there: 'I love you, I love you.'"

"My Dear EugÉnie,—Certainly much time has elapsed since I received any news from you or you from me; I ought to confess that I am very culpable, and that upon me should rest the fault of the silence which ought never to exist between us. It is time at last to break it, and to repair our forgetfulness, or rather mine, by an assiduous correspondence which should place us in that intimate relationship which ought always to exist between a brother and a sister; that is to say, that we come near to each other, notwithstanding the distance which separates us, and make ourselves enjoy a conversation all the more sweet that distance throws a double interest on what we tell to the cherished object.

"My dear EugÉnie, the lines which I am going to write will astonish you without doubt; the conduct which I have maintained towards you up to the present presaged nothing like what you are going to read, but be persuaded that I speak to you sincerely; your surprise, I believe, will be agreeable. Up to now I have shown you little confidence; but why, you will say? The reason of it is not in my heart; woe to me that there was ever the least Éloignement for you! It is the fickleness of the age, it is this continual distraction, heritage of infancy, which follows us to that age where reflection takes the place of sports, and casts the first clouds on the face where there have shone, up to that time only, the candour of innocence and the expression of happiness. But here I am arrived at an age where childhood is for me only a dream; all the illusions of life have disappeared, and sad realities have taken their place. It is then that one is no longer sufficient for himself; it is then that the man who grows pale with dread, and who feels, so to speak, his knees to sink under him in view of the path of life, of that rough road where 'they climb rather than march'; it is then, say I, that man has need of a support, of a helpful arm which sustains him in the trials that he is about to undergo. This want manifested itself to me as soon as, casting a look upon the future, I saw myself alone ready to face so many dangers. Then my heart immediately fixed upon you; and can one indeed find a better friend than a sister such as you are? Be willing, then, henceforth to be a great deal my confidant, and help me with your advice and your friendship. But you will say, 'Ought you to have any other confidant than a father? Is it not he who ought to be the depository of all your secrets?' You may well believe that I have made this reflection; but papa is so sensitive, he is affected with so little a thing that I would never dare tell him all that passes within me. Then you are the one of all the family whose character is the most conformed to mine, so much I have been able to judge by your pieces of verse, all stamped with a sweet reverie, with a sensitiveness, with a tinge of melancholy in fine which makes, I believe, the foundation of my character.

"This expression, so far as I can judge of it, will have caused you some surprise; but this is what I wish to say: I was only fourteen years old when I quitted you—at that age one knows one's self, so to speak, only by sight—my reason was not sufficiently developed, nor capable of an examination sufficiently serious to lay hold upon the traits of your character. I do not believe that you were any more able well to know me, because I was too young to have a decided character. But how many changes have four years brought? What revulsions in this poor heart. People generally believe that I am light, frolicsome, playful, or, at least, such was the opinion that they had of me when I quitted the country; but my character has taken a turn quite different. I am able to say even that it is completely changed, and that there remains for me nothing of my childhood.

"But as the development of a character demands details which could not be given in this letter, I will make my following letters the subject of it. I will trace for you the history of my heart since the age when one begins to reflect to the present; I will make known to you my sensations, my reflections, and what habitually occupies my thoughts. I dare believe that these details will not be without interest for you; and I invite you to make me share also all that passes within you, if that does not weary you. For myself, it seems to me that we should be able to have a most interesting correspondence; for I believe that, in order to love one another, it is necessary perfectly to know each other; and I conceive no greater charm in life than that converse of two hearts who pour continually into each other all their secrets, all their feelings. We will converse also of literature, for it is the only thing, after friendship, which can make an agreeable diversion from the bustle and from the weariness of life; it is the only thing which can console us in our misfortunes and give vigour to our dejected soul. Give me books and plunge me in a dungeon, provided that I can there see clearly enough to read them, I should know how to console myself for the loss of my liberty. You will think, perhaps, that that is pushing the thing a little too far; but it is to make you feel that books can take the place of many things for him who knows how to love them."

"Cayla, November 9th, 1831.

"How long is time when one is weary! Is it three years or three days since you went away, my dear Maurice? For me, I know nothing of it, for all that I know is that I am tired to death. Really, this is the only moment in which I have had any pleasure since you went; yet it will be very short. Jules is in haste to leave us for Paris. Thus, my dear, these few words will follow you without your having any expectation of them, as I have followed you sometimes quite softly to play you a trick. But, my God, how far away from us you are now! You ramble, are always rambling, further, and I follow you hardly knowing where I am going. I am afraid you will be upset, and I recommend you to the petite croix. I have great confidence that it will preserve you from all evil chance. Be devoted to it, as you have promised me, and I shall be tranquil. I am over head and ears in household affairs; but I have left them all to come to say a word to you in your little room, where I find strong reminders of you, without counting your vest and shoes. If you were dead these would be relics for me; but God preserve me from such a devotion.

"I shall go to Cahusac on Monday to see the fair and other things; the following Monday I expect to have news from you if you left Toulouse the day before yesterday. Nothing has happened since Sunday which is worth remembering. Rain, mud, wind, and to-day sunshine, that is all.

"I was forgetting a chicken that Wolf has killed, which cost him some blows with the whip which made him cry piteously. I believe that he called for you. The poor beast had reason for calling his wandering knight, for no one undertook his defence. Trilby kisses you, and licks your hands. For me, I hug you. Adieu.

"My influenza is leaving me, but it does not quit the house; the Shepherd has it yet, as well as Maritorne. People are dying of it at Franseilles; it is really to have death at one's heels. But have we it not always before, behind, and everywhere? Yesterday, at Andillac, a little child went to heaven. If I were a little child I should wish to follow him; but when one is old we never wish to die. It is because, then, all the little threads that bind us to the earth become cables. Papa sends you ten francs to subscribe for him to The European Review. I send you nothing but a couple of squeezes. I have not time to reply to-day to my cousin. Give her my love. Adieu."

"Cayla, November 24th, 1831.

"Here we are then again at our letters, my dear Maurice. It is not at all what I wish, but I content myself with it since I am not able to have you. A charming prophetess has just told me that I shall in a little time be consoled for your absence. If she believes that I shall forget you she is a false prophetess. Does she mean, then, that you will return? But this return is so far off! That you will write to me? That consoles me much, but not altogether. Behold, here it is! Yes; you will return to me; but it will be printed, gilded, bound. I see you an author, you rich in glory, and I in Paris. That is what she had wished to say; she knows that I wish it, this venerable little sorcerer, and she would not wish to announce misfortunes. I accept the augury, which, besides, your letter to me just confirms. You are at last launched in a career, far, very far, from that Code which weighed upon you like Mount Atlas. Papa is satisfied with your determination…. I was quite alone last week. Erembert was at Lacaze, and papa here and there, as you know he is with the fine weather. We have had a spring of four days. The evenings were delightful, but I did not go out to enjoy them all alone. I was then in my chamber, my elbows upon the window and my chin upon my hands; and I gazed, and thought, and regretted. Think of my being alone with Trilby, the only creature who comes to laugh with me. The little dog has had many caresses. Gazelle has also some desire to love me, but it comes and goes like a caprice. I like her, however, more than she knows for the good milk that she gives us.

"My thought often goes the round of the world in the twinkling of an eye. If my legs could follow it you know well where I would be. Truly I am often at the corner of your hearth, blowing and stirring the fire, and sending you a spark when you are too serious. I always imagine that your fireside nooks resemble our own a little, and that at the house of my cousin you find yourself at home again. At least, what you tell me of his wife makes me believe it. I am enchanted that we have so well divined. Tell me if that sweet figure has not that calm air that I think, a little in the style of LÉontine.

"I have had a charming letter from …; she speaks to me of Lucretia. That name, she says, will not go from her thought. When we are inclined to weariness Lucretia is there to bring back gaiety. I confess that in the place of M. M., I would rather get into raptures over a living person than a dead one, but that shows that he does not forget merit. Then she speaks of your future, and this after praises that you could not entertain better than those of the AbbÉ; that is why I do not tell you them. She adds: "He will be happy." Take that word as you would desire; I leave you to think upon it, and especially to achieve it; for the being happy depends in part upon yourself. Not with that happiness which touches not the earth with its foot; but with that happiness of the manner of man, that little portion of felicity which God gives to him here below.

"There is a portion of your letter which has edified me much. It is well for us to say: Let us pray, let us pray. Yes, I have prayed, poor little ant that I am. I have prayed with very good heart for a happy voyage for our pilgrims. May God will that they return happy.

"I have not a single anecdote to tell you, only politics go always like spindles in the night studies of the hamlet. These women spin politics wonderfully. Poor Romiguires is taxed for ten francs—he or his asses. If every one in France pays as much, it will console the poor man. What would you wish that I should send to Rayssac? But you ought to write to M. de Bayne. Console the poor man; this news must have afflicted him. Mimi has written to me; she remains at Toulouse until the first of the year. I think that Jules has arrived safely. He must open his eyes very much in this great Paris. My influenza has left me: you will see this by this long letter. One of these days I shall write to my cousin. I should be much grieved if that correspondence falls asleep. It is said that the cholera is in England. I could wish it almost at Paris, in order to see you all three arrive here. Set out quickly if it approaches; tell my cousin so from me. But I hope to see you here under better auspices."

January 22nd, 1832.

"It is Sunday to-day: the day for repose. So I hear no other sound than that which my pen makes on the paper. I am thinking of you. You are not so tranquil in your great Paris, except in your little chamber, where you find again Le Cayla in a more enjoyable form. When I saw yesterday the great oak of the Teoulet covered with hoar-frost, I thought of the great fir of Maurice. Nothing is more elegant than these trees in winter dress; but hurrah for their summer toilet! When one must only see trees, one loves better to have them green than white. For you, who see so many things, a little snow is nothing, and it is here a great event, especially when I used to make snowballs; but that has been for a long time a lost pleasure. Winter gives me only the sweet warmth of the chimney corner—that is the pleasure of the old. What a distance from the doll to the tongs! And there I am. And then will come spectacles, the cane, and the fall of the teeth—sad New Year's gifts! For at last the years make us all these presents. Since time brings me nothing sweet, I would willingly send back the first of the year as a tiresome creature who comes too often. As you say, It is strange that one is so gay at that period. That children are so very good, they catch bonbons; but we…. Yet if I could have New Year's gifts sometimes according to my fancy….

"I have, however, had one pleasing gift—your letter. Nothing gives me the pleasure of that. When I saw you more than ever wandering and straying in the land of the void, it is then that you show me that shut up in your room—confined to a regular work—what progress you have there made, my dear brother! Frankly, I did not expect so prompt a conversion. May God maintain it! I told you well that will is power. You have willed and have achieved; you have achieved even to the resumption of the code. I am quite content with you, and with your courage. Are you not well repaid for your first effort in seeing what it has produced? 'I now meet the day intrepidly.' It is the very thing for which you have made me wait so long, and it is that which makes me preach so much. Nothing gave me more pain than to see you so sick with life. You see how much sweeter she is when one knows how to lead her. It is for you the commencement of happiness to be able to think calmly. By little and little all will arrange itself, all will frame, all will harmonise in your existence. You will do like our old timepiece, which sounds very well when the weather is fine. Make it last, this fine weather that shines upon you now; and when the glacial discouragement shall come to fall upon you, fall again upon it as you have done already. He who gives one kick is able to give two, is able to give a thousand. I easily believe that these are terrible conflicts which these fits of dejection sometimes cause you. If I could cure you or help you. 'The Imitation' says something very true: 'Often the fire burns, but its flame rises not without smoke.' It is very true; there arises not in us a good thought, a good intention, that is not quickly mingled with a little smoke, with a little human frailty. But the good God blows upon it, and it all departs.

"We have had some days of cold which makes the little birds cry. It is less sad than to hear the cry of the poor. I well believe that they spoil for you the pleasure of the fireside; but it pleases me to see that they cause you sorrow. If ever I come to knock at your door, I see that you will not close it against me. You would often hear rat-tat at your door if it were not so far off. For example, I would have come quickly to embrace you when I saw you so sage, so studious, so retired from the world. You have upon me the effect of a Father of the Church, studying the Bible and religious philosophy in your tranquil cell. I do not, however, think that any of them are as well lodged as you. But it is a charming abode! I can well understand that you make pretty verses within there, while stirring the fire. I feel sure that there are some everywhere in your room—upon the table, the chairs, at the corner of the fire; and I have nothing! Tell me, at any rate, what you are doing. Where is your drama? I should much love this Peter the Hermit. You would wish much, it seems to me, to present something to Lamartine. Do it, if you believe me. He will receive you, I am sure of it, as you would receive an angel, of whom you would ask encouragement and goodwill.

"I sent word to Rayssac, as you told me. There is no doubt that the Blessed Nicholas will be welcome. Who does not love the lives of the saints? I am not able to give you the explanations that you ask. How do you wish that I should set about it? It could only be in a tÊte-À-tÊte sometime that I should be able to ask it; in a letter never. Both the question and answer would be too indiscreet. In writing, content yourself, my dear, with the light and shade. Finally, Louise has not written since the long letter. I sent you in my last some lines with which you ought to be satisfied. Charles has made a great stir in the country, especially in the city of gossips; it was for this, it was for that, that he had to come to Cayla. They asked me what was his age, his fortune; and I heard it whispered, 'He is too young for her'; and she thought, 'What have you to bother yourselves about?' But they interfere with everything—from our wooden shoes to our consciences. They know everything—thoughts, words, acts, omissions, everything except how tiresome is their curiosity. I am for liberty of the press, but not for that of the tongue. They ought really to arrest some of those in this part of the country!

"Really you are leading the most charming life in the world. Our pastimes have but little resemblance to yours. One of these days, which was very cold, we went out, Mimi and I, to have a walk in the woods, and to pay a visit to the ravens; but, although well clothed, well muffled, the cold seized us. By good luck we found a fire of some young shepherds, who very graciously yielded to us the place of honour, a stone in front of the fire larger than the others. These children recounted to us all that they knew—one had just been eating some fry, the other had at home some fresh eggs laid by a red hen. From time to time they threw on the fire some handfuls of twigs, with an air of such content that there is no king who might not have said, 'Why am I not one of you?' If I knew how to make poetry I would sing 'The Shepherds' Fire.'"

"July 15th, 1834.

"Two good letters have come to us, yours, my dear Maurice, and one from FelicitÉ, who tells us of the situation offered you at Juilly. I hope you will not have said 'No,' unless it be for reasons unknown to us. What can present itself better, in your position, than a place where you will be able to see the future at no other cost than that of a little will and character. It is necessary to have a will for any one to be master in whatever circumstances. Thus one after the other all the faculties will be brought into play, and, the occasion having come, each will be ready for its work and will reply, 'Here I am.'

"I like what you tell me of the country, and the family life which you lead at the house of your friend. I remember that he wrote to you when you were here, and that he seemed to me to be quite devoted to you. He proves to us now how true it was. Tell him from me what pleasure the signal service rendered to you gives me, and the gratitude that I feel for his cordial affection. Has he a mother? Has he sisters? As I know that you are pleased to find us again anywhere, I ask if M. Vacher has sisters who fondle him, who pet brothers and chickens as we do at Cayla? Yesterday I saw one of my enjoyments die, one of these little pampered ones, devoured by a wicked stepmother. I covered it with sugar and with wine, but it is dead no less, and the poor little thing is now in the deep well, the great tomb of dead chickens and beasts. I have no stock this year but the poultry yard; neither birds nests, nor sparrow. In caring for these little birds we are made to love them; but they die, and then one pities them. We have plenty of sorrows. Then it is also a loss of time. One finds it so precious that I become more and more greedy of it, and only with regret give a few minutes to pleasure. Really, I do not know what that is, for everything is changed into the useful for me, even the pleasure of writing to you.

"My correspondence always goes its pace. Long letters to the mountain, short ones to Gaillac, but often to Lisle as well. My beautiful Antoinnette cannot forget me, and sends me frequently pretty, gracious letters—charming heart-jewels. I owe her a reply, as well as others. Yesterday I had seven letters to write. My quiet room is a veritable post-office. You know how nice it is. At present I hear the grasshoppers singing, and from time to time a nightingale, who has his nest yonder among the juniper-trees. This side of Le Cayla is a little spoiled by the ruin of the great oak and the great cherry-tree, which were blown down in the winter; but this is nothing when we see the wood of Sept-Fonts all laid low—our dear walk without shade, our seats overturned, half broken; it makes me ill to see that, and I do not go there now, or I go only for reflection. Where shall I be?—where shall we be when these trees shall have become grown again? Others will go to walk under their shade, and will, like us, see winds which will make them fall. In all times there will be storms upon the earth.

"I am reading now 'Les Etudes de Chateaubriand.' After Lamartine, he is the poet I most love. Sometimes there comes to me a fancy to tell him so. Perhaps I shall do so, and I shall send it to you. I am working for my friend over there; and to cause her an agreeable surprise should like to make my piece fall under her eyes in the Revue Europeanne as by chance. Her father gets that journal, and Louise told me lately that she always looked for me there. M. GazalÉ will not refuse you if the poetry of women is received in his journal. I am told it is, and I offer my flower. But let it be without name; I wish to be known only by Louise, who has no need that I name myself. Oh, that would give me pleasure! I am going to work at it, for it is not finished, then I will come again to tell you all papa wants you to know.

"There, that is done; my piece is finished; but not as I should like it; it wants something at the close, but I leave a blank, that I may not delay sending it to you…. Auguste ought to be happy with this little boy born to him. We had thought that you would be godfather. It is papa who here speaks, or rather makes me speak…. Adieu, my dear brother; I commend my poetry to you. If you are able to get it inserted, tell me; I will send it in manuscript. Eran is at Albi. Papa and Mimi embrace you, as I do, with all their heart.

"On the subject of poetry, I have had a thought for a long time which I wish to make you share. Have you not remarked that while we are inundated with so much poetry, there comes nothing for the children? Their little intelligence has, however, also its own wants, and their little heart its enjoyments. What pretty things there are to tell them! It seems to me, therefore, that a children's poetry is wanted by us, and would be welcomed. I have an inspiration: what think you of that? Is it necessary at last to get clear of my ideas by stifling them, or letting them go forth? I do not know why I have them; may God enlighten me. Reply to me on that subject, and tell me if I need fear loss of time, if my 'Enfantines' would succeed. Then no more hesitation. I am at the work, otherwise I shall prefer making stockings to useless verses all my life. When we think of the account we shall have to render to God of all our actions, of all our moments, we have need to remember the use that we make of them. Life is so short to gain heaven, that each moment lost should be the occasion of tears.

"I have a sorrow of conscience or of heart. The priest is leaving the diocese—he of whom I have spoken to you. I regret him so much more, because he had given me permission to write to him, and I had hoped so much for that spiritual correspondence. Let us not speak of it. Do you remember me in your prayers? We ought to pray as much as to love. From me you have both the one and the other. Adieu."

"September 13th, 1834.

"Raymond departs in a month, and is to come to take our parcels for you, my dear Maurice. I shall give him but little besides the little copy-book where I wish to write every day until your friend's departure. It will only be a letter of thirty pages, more or less, following events and the course of ideas, for sometimes many things happen in the mind and in the house, and at other times nothing at all!

"This week, for example, the habitual calm of Cayla has been broken by the arrival of our cousins from Thezac and Bellerive, who have come for the hunting. They are all quite big young men now, which makes one think, I who have seen them born…."

"September 14th, 1834.

"It is Sunday: day for long walks at Cayla. So at sunrise Mimi and I were upon the heights of St. Pierre, going to the first mass at Cahusac. Now I am back, and thinking of the grand sermon of Father Bories. He is always our Massilon, speaking better than any other, and moralising marvellously. It is not his fault if those who hear him are not always very high in heavenly things…. To-day I am well because I have taken the Communion. I remark with admiration the grand remedy which I find therein, and wherein, following the expression of St. Francis de Sales, I feel I have the Saviour in the heart, in my head, in my spirit, and all my being. May this calm last with me! Then all is in health—the soul and the body; and poetry also comes to me again. It is only in times of peace that I sing. Do you understand that, my dear brother?"

"1834.

"An unexpected messenger passing at La Croix for Albi reminds me of our deputy, who, you have said, will willingly take charge of our letters. This will be short—an abridgment, a nothing, that I write at full speed in waiting for Delern, our messenger. It was papa who came quite out of breath from Pausadon to announce this departure to us, and behold pens in train, Mimi on one side and I on the other. She replies to your letter which came the day before yesterday, and I am only going to add a souvenir, after my courier of Friday. There is not much time, and as I should wish to write to Louise by the same means, that will make me rob you of a few minutes. You will not be sorry for it; and, besides, what should I say to-day that I have not said a hundred times? I say things over again. I repeat. I am like the old, repeating in the evening what they have said in the morning.

"But here is something fresh, a reproach; do not tremble, it is a complaint. I wish to tell you that your letter to Mimi would have given her much more pleasure if it had been longer, and if it had not failed to add a thousand things which are always wanting in your letters. Is it your fault or that of your masculine heart? Ours, it seems to me, understands better in friendship, and waits not to be asked for tenderness and all that one loves to see in a friendly correspondence. These poor brothers, we spoil them; we love them too much. We love them so warmly that to do the same seems impossible to them. But I wish to correct myself, and in place of the long epistles I have been accustomed to write you shall have only short ones. That is a resolution taken until you write to me according to my fancy. Adieu then to the little journal—of what use is it to me? You write to me no longer because of it. Nothing for nothing. I shall never know a word of your life because, say you, you would extend yourself so far on that subject I should grow weary in following you. Where would you then go, even though it should be to the end of the world, that I should not arrive with you? It is only a defect, an excuse for idleness, or for a heart a little frozen. You are going to be vexed, to complain. But why do you write so briefly? But for that letter to Mimi, I should say the most pretty things, or the most sweet at least, for I have not much bitterness in my soul, and already the sweet softness comes to me again. This poor Maurice, who without doubt loves us; what do I want from him, what am I demanding from him? Instead of thanking him for all that he does now, I am chiding him. That is not well. Then I am silent; let us embrace, and all is ended.

"How rich you are again, my brother, with your 1,800 francs! God be praised, and your friends blessed, and that good M. Buquet! Be well assured that papa forms no more rash judgments on them, and that we bear for them all the gratitude in the world for what they have done for you. Has your dear Lefebvre anything to do with your good fortune? I should like to know that he has. You know how I loved this friend of yours. And those of Brittany, shall we know no more of them? Answer me a word on their account, and do not forget La ChÊnaie if you know anything of it. Do you think that I have forgotten about it? Oh, no, but I never think of the fallen angel but with a feeling of the heart I am not able to express. Tell us what he is doing. For here it is said that he grumbles against Rome in his solitude, and that he has just published his "Philosophy." Our journals, however, have said nothing of it. It is true that it is only the poor little Gazette du Languedoc, that says nothing but gossip. Here is Delern. Adieu, my dear brother; I love you always. I have only time to assure FÉlicitÉ and her family of all my affections."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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!"

"April 8th, 1839.

"Rain and cold must have accompanied you all the journey, my dear friend; they tell me that every day the weather has been horrid. But, at the time of writing, I have the consolation of thinking that for two days you have enjoyed rest after fatigue. In that assurance my thought has left the road to Nevers to follow that for Toulouse, where Eran is going, always with the same cortÉge 'of wind, of cold, and of rain.' Poor Eran! He left me with an emotion that touched me very much. This journey to Paris, and all that has happened in a few months, has drawn together and mingled our lives (Eran's and mine) more than twenty years had been able to do. We have always lived far away from each other, and our characters have not helped much to make up for distance. At length, events have hastened what must happen sooner or later, at our age, and we parted with more feeling in our hearts…. I live quite tranquil under my curtains, waiting with patience, thanks to Caro's care, to books and dreams, the healing which the sun will bring me. I like this almost complete retreat from the rest of the world; for I am not such an enemy to solitude as you may fancy; and there are in me quite strong tastes and needs which the warmest lovers of a country life would not disavow. I hope that God will cause these thoughts to be matured and, at the same time, the means of realising them.

"M. Buquet came to see me the day of your departure, a few hours after. He came again yesterday to talk with me, as you wished. He is to pay another visit next week; at length I hope all will go on for the best." …

"It was on July 8, twenty days from our leaving Paris, at nearly six o'clock in the evening, that we came in sight of Le Cayla, the land of hope, the resting-place of our poor invalid. His thoughts had been there only, as the one place on earth, for a long time. I never saw in him a more ardent desire, and it grew more and more keen as we approached. One might have said that he was in a hurry to arrive, to be in time to die there. Had he any presentiment of his end? In the first transports of joy at the sight of Le Cayla, he pressed the hand of Erembert, who was by his side. He made a sign to us all as of a discovery, to me who had never less emotion of pleasure. I was contemplating sorrowfully everything in this sad return, even my sister, and my father, who were at some little distance, coming to meet us. Distressing meeting! My father was dismayed; Marie wept at seeing Maurice. He was so changed, so wasted, so pale, so shaky upon his horse, that he hardly seemed alive. It was terrifying. The journey had killed him. If the thought of arriving had not sustained him, I doubt whether he would have accomplished it. You know something of what he had to suffer, poor dear martyr! He embraced his father and his sister without showing himself to be much moved. At the first sight of the chateau he seemed in a sort of ecstasy; the perturbation that it caused him was unique, and must have exhausted all his faculty of sensation; I never saw him so keenly touched by anything again. He, however, affectionately greeted the reapers who were cutting our wheat, shook hands with some of them, and with all the servants who gathered round us.

"When we came to the salon: 'Ah, how nice it is here,' said he, sitting down on the couch, and he again embraced my father. We were all regarding him with content. It was still a family joy. His wife went to do some unpacking; I took her place beside him, and kissing him on the brow, which I had not done for a long time, said, 'How well you look! You will quickly recover here.' 'I hope so—I am at home.' 'Let your wife also consider herself as at home; make her understand that she is one of the family, and do as in her own house.' 'No doubt, no doubt.' I do not remember what other things we said in those moments while we were alone. Caroline came down, supper was announced, which Maurice found delicious. He ate of everything with appetite. 'Ah!' he said to Marie, 'your cooking is excellent.'

"My God! what followed takes hold of my heart. My life is there only.

"I have a future only by faith, by bonds which are attached to Maurice, and from him to the skies….

"But let us return to his life—to the last and precious recollections of it which are left to me.

"We hoped much from the climate, from his native air, and from the warm temperature of our South. The second day from our arrival it was cold; the invalid felt it, and had shiverings. His finger-ends were like ice. I saw clearly that there was not the improvement we had hoped, that he could not recover so quickly whilst these attacks returned. There was no fever after, and the doctor reassured us. These doctors are often deceived, or deceivers. We induced the invalid not to leave his room the following day, attributing the chill he had taken to the coldness of the salon. He resigned himself, as he always did, though somewhat unwillingly, to what we wished; but it was so dull up there, and it became so warm by-and-bye, that I myself invited him to come down. 'Oh! yes,' he said, 'Here I am far from everybody. There is more life below with you all, and then there is the terrace. I will go there to take a walk. Let us go down.' That terrace especially drew him to enjoy the outside air, the sun, and that beautiful nature which he so much loved. I believe it was on that day that he pulled some weeds round the pomegranate tree, and dug some feet of Peruvian lilies. Assisted by his wife he stretched a wire along the wall for the jasmine and creepers. That appeared to amuse him. "So each day I will try my strength a little," said he, on returning indoors. He never went out again. The weakness increased, the least movement fatigued him. He only left his armchair by necessity, or to take a few steps, at the prayer of his wife, who tried everything to draw him from his lethargy. She sang, she played, and all often without effect—at least, I was not able to see any impression. He remained the same to everything, his head leaning upon the side of his chair, his eyes closed. He had, however, some better times some brief periods in which there were flashes towards life. It was in one of these moments that he went to the piano and played an air—poor air, which I shall have in my heart always.

"I wish to tell you, also, how much this dear brother has given me consolation in regard to his Christian sentiments. This dates, not from his last days only; he had kept Easter at Paris. At the beginning of Lent he wrote to me: 'The AbbÉ Buquel came to see me; to-morrow he will come again to talk with me as you desired.' Dear friend! Yes, I had desired that for his happiness, and he had done it for mine, not conceding for complacency, but doing it from conviction; he was incapable of the appearance of an act of faith. I have seen him alone at Tours, in his room on Sunday reading prayers. For some time he had enjoyed works of piety, and I have been thankful that I left with him Saint Theresa and FÉnÉlon, which have done him much good. God ceased not to inspire me for him. So I had the fancy to bring for the journey a good little book, pious and charming to read, translated from the Italian—'Father Quadrupani'—which gave him much pleasure. From time to time he asked me to read him a few pages: 'Read me a little of Quadrupani.' He listened with attention, then signed to me when he had had enough, reflected thereon, closed his eyes and rested, impressing upon his mind the sweet and comforting holy thoughts. Thus every day at Cayla we read to him some sermons of Bossuet and some passages from 'The Imitation of Christ.' He also wished to have some entertaining reading, and having nothing new in our library, we began Scott's 'Old Mortality.' He went through one volume with some appearance of interest, and then gave it up. He was soon fatigued with anything; we did not know what to do in order to divert him. Visits brought him little relief; he talked only with his doctor—a man of intelligence, who pleased the invalid and sustained his interest. I noticed these moral influences, and even in his greatest prostration that intelligent nature rose up with every kindred touch. Thus the evening, or evening but one, before his death he laughed heartily at your feuilleton, so pleasantly witty: Il faut que jeunesse se passe, with which he was charmed. He wished to have it read over again: 'Write to d'Aurevilly,' he said to me, 'and tell him it is a long time since I have laughed as I have just done.' Alas! he laughed no more! You gave him the last intellectual pleasure that he had. Everything was enjoyable that came to him from you. Friendship was the sweetest and strongest of his sentiments, that which he felt the most deeply, of which he loved best to speak, and which, I can say, he has taken with him to the tomb. Oh! yes, he loved you to the end. I do not know on what occasion, being alone with him, speaking of you, I said to him: 'Do you like me to write to your friend?' 'Do I like it?' he said, with his heart in his voice. The same day, on leaving him, I sent you a bulletin.

"We thought him very weak; however, I hoped always. I had written to the Prince of Hohenlohe. I expected a miracle. His cough was easier, his appetite sustained him. The fatal evening he yet dined with us: the last family dinner! There were some figs which he wished for, and which I was unkind enough to forbid; but the others having approved, he ate one, which did him neither good nor harm, and I was saved from the bitterness of having deprived him of something. I wish to tell everything, to preserve every incident of his last moments, much grieved not to remember more. A word that he said to my father has stayed with me. My poor father returned from Gaillac quite hot, with his medicines. When Maurice saw him he said, holding out his hand to him, 'One must confess that you love your children well,' And, indeed, my father did love him well! A little time after the poor invalid, rising with difficulty from his chair to go into the adjoining room, 'I am very low,' he said, speaking as to himself. I heard him, that sentence of death from his mouth, without answering a word, without, perhaps, quite believing it. But I was struck. In the evening they carried him with his chair into his room. While he was going to bed I talked with Erembert: 'He is very feeble to-night, but his chest is freer, the cough is gone. If we can get on to the month of October he will be saved.' It was the 18th July, at ten o'clock at night. He had a bad night. I heard his wife speak to him, rising often. All was heard in my room—I listened to all. I went soon in the morning to see him, and his look struck me. It was a fixed look. 'What does it mean?' I said to the doctor, who came early. 'It means that Maurice is worse.' Ah, my God! Erembert went to tell my father, who came quickly. He went immediately out, and consulted with the doctor, who had told him it was necessary to think of the last sacraments. The CurÉ was sent for, also my sister, who was at church. My father begged the doctor, M. Facien, to prepare Caroline for the terrible tidings. He took her apart. I went to join her immediately, and found her all in tears. I heard her say, 'I knew it.' She knew that he must die! 'For three months I have been preparing myself for this sacrifice.' Thus the stroke of death did not terrify her, but she was disconsolate.

"'My poor sister,' I said, putting my arm round her neck. 'This is the dreadful moment; but let us not weep; we must tell him, he must be prepared for the sacraments. Do you feel strong enough for the duty, or shall I do it?' 'Yes; you do it, EugÉnie—you do it!' She was stifled with sobs. I passed immediately to the bed of the invalid, and, praying God to sustain me, I leant over him, and kissed him on the moist forehead. 'My brother,' I said to him, 'I want to tell you something. I have written for you to the Prince of Hohenlohe. You know he has done some miracles of healing. God works by whom He wills and how He wills. He is, above all, the sovereign healer of the sick. Have you not confidence in him? Supreme confidence' (or full, I do not remember which). 'Well, my friend, let us ask in all confidence His mercy; let us unite in prayers, we with the Church, you in your heart. We are going to have Mass with Communion. You will have it with us. Jesus Christ went to the sick, you know.' 'Oh! I wish it much, I wish to unite in your prayers.' 'That is right, my brother; the CurÉ is coming, and you will confess. It will not pain you to talk to the CurÉ?' 'Not at all.' The CurÉ came. Maurice asked him to wait a little, not being quite ready. We saw him entirely collected and meditative. Alas! last meditation of his soul! In about ten minutes he called for the priest, and remained with him for nearly half-an-hour, conversing, we were told, with all the lucidity and calmness of mind he had when in health. We made the arrangements necessary for the Communion. His wife, with the sadness and piety of an angel, recited to him the prayers for the Communion, which are so beautiful, and those for the dying, which are so touching; then he asked for those for the extreme unction, calmly and naturally, as for a thing expected.

"He was hungry and faint, and asked me for his cordial, which I brought him. As he perspired much, I said to him, 'My dear, do not put out your arm; I will feed you like an infant.' A smile came upon his lips, where I laid the spoon, where I made to pass the last food he took. Thus I have been able to serve him once more, to give him my care another time. He was given back to me dying. I marked it as a favour of God, granted to my love as a sister, that I have rendered to this dear brother the last services to the soul and body, since I prepared him for the last sacraments, and made his last nourishment: food for both lives. This seems nothing, is nothing, in fact, for any one else. It is for me alone to observe it, and to thank Providence for these relations taken up again with my dear Maurice before he left us. Sad and indefinable compensation for so many months of passive friendship! Was I wrong in wishing to serve him? Who knows?…

"The invalid, it seemed to me, was better. His eyes, open again, had not the startling fixed appearance of the morning, nor was his intellect feeble; he appeared morally revived, and in full enjoyment of his faculties throughout the ceremonies. He followed everything with his heart, very devoutly…. He pressed the hand of the CurÉ, who continued to speak to him of heaven, put to his lips a cross that his wife offered him, and then began to sink. We all kissed him, and he died, Friday morning, July 19, 1839, at half-past eleven. It was eleven days after our arrival at Le Cayla—eight months after his marriage."