"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."