“She was in fear of troubles, of proscriptions, and prepared herself to meet them with the fortitude which characterized her in real dangers. She thought there was to be a persecution against Christians, and reckoned upon me to protect the oppressed. ‘It appears to me,’ she said, ‘that the world is beginning over again; nothing but fresh experiments. Why are not all things going on according to your wishes?’ All these thoughts were confused in her head; she believed we were in Egypt and Syria.
“We thought once her ravings had ceased. ‘Am I not mad?’ she exclaimed. ‘Come nearer; tell me if I have lost my reason.’ I answered that I should be very sorry to take for absurdities all the kind things she had said to me. ‘Have I said anything kind? But I have also said many silly things; have we not acted the tragedy of Athalie? What! I am married to the sincerest of men, and I cannot know the truth. It is still your kindness; you want to spare my head. Do speak; I am resigned to the disgrace of being mad.’
“We succeeded at length in calming her. I told her she was valued and loved. ‘Ah!’ she answered, ‘I do not care to be valued, so long as I am loved.’ Another time she said: ‘Fancy what a state my poor head is in; what an odd thing it is that I cannot remember whether Virginie and M. de Lasteyrie are betrothed or united. Help me to collect my thoughts.’
“Sometimes we could hear her praying in her bed. She made her daughters read prayers to her. There was something heavenly in the manner she twice repeated Tobit’s prayers applicable to her state, the same she had recited to her daughters on seeing the steeples of Olmütz for the first time.
“I approached her. ‘It is from the book of Tobit,’ she said: ‘I sing badly; that is why I recite it.’ Another time she composed a most beautiful prayer which lasted full an hour.
“One day I was speaking to her of her angelic gentleness. ‘Yes,’ she said; ‘God has made me gentle; though my gentleness is not like yours; I have not such high pretensions. You are so strong as well as so gentle, and you are very good to me.’
“‘It is you who are good,’ I answered, ‘and generous above all. Do you remember my first departure for America? Everybody against me, and you hiding your tears at M. de Ségur’s marriage. You tried not to appear in grief, for fear of bringing down more blame upon me.’ ‘True,’ she said, ‘it was rather nice for a child. But how kind of you to remember so far back!’
“She spoke very sensibly of her daughters’ happiness, of the good and noble character of her sons-in-law. ‘Nevertheless, I have not been able to make them as happy as I am. It would have required all God’s power to have brought about that again.’
“It is not to boast, my dear friend, that I tell you all this, although one might well be proud of it, but I find comfort in repeating to you and to myself how tender and how happy she was.
“How happy she would have been this winter—all her children near her, the war finished for George and Louis, the birth of Virginie’s child, and, I may add, after an illness which, owing to our past fears, would have made her doubly dear to us. Had she not to the last, the kindness of thinking of my amusements at La Grange, of my farm, of all that was of daily interest to me! When I spoke to her of returning home: ‘Ah!’ she said, ‘that would be too delicious. My God, my God!’ she exclaimed, ‘six more poor years of La Grange!’ She wanted to return there with me, and begged of me to start before her. I entreated her to allow me to stay, and asked her to rest a little. She promised to do her best; and as she became calmer, ‘Well,’ she said, ‘remain, wait a little; I shall go quietly to sleep.’