"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."
The project mentioned by Mdlle. de Guérin of writing a book of children's poetry was not carried out. An over-sensitive and unhealthy conscience led her to believe that because she derived from the occupation great pleasure the desire should be discouraged. As a matter of self-sacrifice she abandoned the writing of poetry, whilst passionately loving it, and whilst she felt at the same time she was gaining power and inspiration, thinking it better for her soul's health to teach a word of catechism to little children than to write a volume of poetry. This must be regretted, as the few pieces which Mdlle. de Guérin composed of her proposed Enfantines are full of promise and of subtle charm. Writing on the subject she says: "There is no poetry for the children—poetry pure, fresh, laughing, celestial as their own souls, a poetry for their age. What is put into their hands is nearly always above their capacity, and is also not without danger, as the fables of La Fontaine. I would remove many of them from the collection for the first age, to whom is due so much reverence. Children are the angels of the earth. One ought to speak to them only in their language, to create for them only things pure, to paint for them in azure blue. Religion, history, nature offer rich pictures. But who will be the Raphael?"
As a specimen of the projected poems the following may be given. As a little girl Eugénie had imagined that an angel presided over their play. This she called the Angel Joujou, and afterwards put the idea into verse:—