Adrien has lent me Rusbrock the admirable. Thanks for pointing it out to me, dear Kate. How beautiful is this loftiness! It is like a Sinai. I read a few lines, and
then close my eyes and let my mind ruminate upon this teaching. Oh! how favored is France to possess writers so great. Alas! that so many of these should be on the side of evil, and that the readers should be so numerous of the myriads of impious works which fear not to display themselves in the light of day!
What do you say of the enthusiasm of Catholics for the Jubilee of the incomparable Pius IX.? Is it not of good augury for the Council? I am thirsting for Rome, but we shall not pass the winter there, as you hoped we should; my mother could not return thither without indescribable suffering. It was in the Catholic fatherland that René’s father felt the first approach of the illness which was prematurely to carry him off, and he died at Pisa. The violence of my mother’s grief was such as to make her friends despair of consoling her, or even of preserving her life. God calmed the anguish of this broken heart, but it would be imprudent to expose her to fresh emotion. She loves Italy, and listens when I speak of it, but she never speaks of it herself. This dear mother, so affectionate and so loved, yesterday made me a present of a delightful volume: La Maison (“The House”), by M. de Ségur. It is poetry—charming, Christian poetry—which makes the tears come into one’s eyes. The House—a title full of promise!
“Quel ciel valut jamais le ciel qui nous vit naître?
Ce toit, ce nid chéri, ce paternel foyer,
Qu’on aima, tout petit, avant de rien connaître,
Et que jamais, au loin, rien ne fait oublier?”[187]
There are pages in this book which you would not be able to read without a certain emotion. It is the history of Sabine, a Nun
of the Visitation. Adrien read us this exquisite little poem; my mother and I wept, Gertrude looked at the crucifix, and René at the portrait of Hélène. A poignant sorrow seemed to sigh in the voice of Adrien.
My godson is charming. The choice of his name is left to me. As he was born on the 19th of March, he has a right to the name of Joseph. I should very much like to call him Guy—a pretty Breton name. Say, Kate, if this would not be nice: Marie-Joseph-Anne-Adrien-Yves-Guy?