leave us Picciola. “Will he do so? There was heaven in the look of that child on the day of her First Communion! Dear Georgina, love above all the good pleasure of God!” I write to you from the side of this bed converted into a chapel. The earthly covering is there. I have shed no tears; my soul is in a state of joy such as I never before experienced. The saint had said to me: “If I am happy, I will cause you to feel it!” We have written to the relative and to the other friends. I shall not send this letter until the day after to-morrow.
April 7.—All is over. The burial vault has received the coffin, the friends are gone away again, the relation, an eccentric personage, is preparing to do the same, and so also must we. I could have almost wished to remain again to meditate, in this chapel where our saint has so often prayed, on the latest teachings which escaped her dying lips. The relative authorizes us to take away the “gallery” whenever we like to do so; even adding, with a certain politeness, that we might look upon this dwelling as our own.
They are waiting for us at home, and I am wishing for news from Hyères. Quick! we are going to retraverse our Brittany and return to our Penates.
Adieu for a little time, dear sister!
April 12, 1869.
What haste we have had to make in order to be here at Orleans in time for the golden wedding of Pius IX.! Magnificent Mass at St. Pierre du Martroi. The interior of the ancient church disappeared beneath hangings of velvet; above the altar shone the triple-crowned tiara. The Abbé La Grange said the Mass and made a beautiful address:
“Believe in the church, in her divine constitution, in her divine mission, in her splendid and incontestable immortality.” Admirable and elevating singing—the Tu es Petrus and some fine strophes for the occasion; then High Mass at the cathedral, also richly adorned and resplendent, with a multitude of people. There again was heavenly singing—a remarkable Sanctus, and, after the Mass, the Te Deum, that immortal hymn of thanksgiving. Sermon, procession, benediction. At six o’clock we came out of Sainte-Croix. What a day! How I love these splendors of the divine worship, this harmony of souls, these hymns, the fragrant incense, all this grand and admirable ensemble which Christianity alone can offer!
You may imagine the reception we met with on reaching home, and with what interest our account was listened to. The news is encouraging from all directions, I hope, I hope! When I think of the sadnesses of this world and all the bitternesses of life, I say with St. Stanislaus Kostka: “I am not born for present things, but future.” How much there is that is consoling in this thought!
My poor old Crossman is suffering greatly, and his wife is at the point of death. Tell me, dear Kate, how is it that I see so many dead? Let us rather speak of life and its expansion; let us speak of Karl, whose kind and fraternal pages reached me this morning. How he longs for the priesthood! What a thirst he has for souls! Already in desire he springs on unknown shores, and even goes so far as to dream of martyrdom. O holy ecstasies of love! What joy it must be to conquer the infidel, and to receive these disinherited ones to the table of the Lord! “The love
of one alone sheds itself upon all the beings who dwell by his side, ennobles them, and gives them understanding and strength—unrivalled and precious gifts which no other power in the world would have been able to bestow.”