I used to say this at Venice to the pretty little Rutti, the little American girl; do you remember her? Oh! how well she used to pray, this little dove from the New World. Dear, I should like to cross the ocean to have a nearer view of that unknown land which attracts me so much, with its freedom, its immense spaces, its splendid vegetation, and its beautiful sun! But, nevertheless, it is not Ireland, my country, and the land of memories!
God keep you!
July 6, 1868.
Dear Kate, in two days we start for my dear green Erin, to the great joy of Marcella, who is an enthusiast about O’Connell. Margaret feels a thrill, she tells me, at the sound of a carriage. It is high time to make acquaintance with the handsome baby. René has left me to accompany the saint, whom I would fain have taken with us. She smiled sadly in answer to my proposal: “The aged tree that grows in lonely places cannot thus be rooted up.”
The Annales Orléanaises speak of nothing but deaths: the Abbé Debeauvais, Curé of St. Thomas d’Aquin, has just died at Mgr. Dupanloup’s; Madame de Bannand; the Abbé Rocher, almoner of the prisons, etc., etc. Prince Michael of Servia has been assassinated: it is almost ancient history. I must
see to my packages; so good-by for the present, until we are with la belle Anglaise.
July 19, 1868.
It is from England, and from Margaret’s magnificent residence, that I now think of you, dear Kate. A quick passage, splendid weather, everybody well and strong, including baby Gaston. Lord William was waiting for us on the pier; we were soon in the carriage, and next day in the arms of Margaret, who cannot fête us enough. The children have already become used to English ways, to this people of many footmen, to this pomp and splendor, and to the beauties of the Isle of Saints. Margaret is in the full bloom of her happiness; her child is superb, and resembles her.
Dear, dear Kate, how much I enjoy being here! What emotion I felt on setting foot on this soil, Breton also, but different from the other! I wept much, and feel ready to weep again. What is wanting to me? You, you, and the best beloved of mothers! But you are both of you with God—my mother in the heaven of heavens, and you in the heaven upon earth! Laus Deo, nevertheless, and for ever.
Marcella understood the inward grief I felt, and delicately offered me her friendly consolations. We shall soon see Isa. I shall undertake the pilgrimage of friendship with René, in which all the family will join us: Mme. de T—— has so arranged it, you can imagine with what thought. Meanwhile, we are enjoying Margaret’s splendid hospitality. Her mother-in-law pleases me. These few lines are only to say good-day.