The day has passed away like a dream. I hasten to send this to the post, that you may thank God with us. Laus Deo always and for ever!
Love from all to my Kate.
May 4, 1869.
Have returned to my former pleasant way of life with Marcella, my true sister; but the shadow is still there. The doctor said to Marianne: “Be very careful of this beautiful child; I do not answer for her chest!” It is as if I had heard a funeral knell. She is so smiling and pretty, this “little saint of the good God,” as she was called in the south. Yesterday, as I watched her playing with Guy, Berthe said to me: “Don’t you perceive something extraordinary about Madeleine—something that is not of this world?” I turned pale; had she also a presentiment? Picciola advanced towards us, and we said no more; but this morning the dear innocent said: “Would you believe, mamma, that I have still gone on growing?” “In wisdom, I will answer for it,” declared Adrien. “O uncle! you are jesting. I mean in height.” “You are growing too much, darling,” answered Berthe; “you must let yourself be taken care of, and kiss me.” The poor mother, I fear, is aware.… Oh! pray with me, Kate. Just listen to this revelation made to me by Marianne: “For certain, madame, there is something extraordinary in this; never a complaint, and yet she must suffer, the dear darling, the doctor assured me. When I questioned her one day when she was paler than usual, she answered: ‘O Marianne! on the contrary, it is well, very well!’ and she looked up to heaven.”
What do you think about it, dear Kate? The words of the Saint of the sea-shore are always sounding in my ears. Oh! that God may spare her to us, this flower of innocence and purity. She has resumed her studies. Her memory is marvellous; she is first in every branch of instruction.
I love her more dearly than ever; it is settled that her hour of manual occupation shall be passed in my room. I have not yet confided my fears to Marcella; I leave her to her happiness.
“Un malheur partagé ne peut nous secourir.
Car on souffre surtout dans ceux qu’on voit souffrir.”
Hélène has written to her mother. One might be reading St. Teresa. Gertrude is worthy of such a daughter. I have spoken to you of the way in which she despoils herself; this self-spoliation is now as complete as it can be. Her room has the aspect of a cell. I must appear very worldly to her, with my fondness for beautiful things. I have felt tempted to ask her this, but have resisted the temptation. Would you believe that she has made a vow not to see again either her sons or her daughter? “There is too much for nature in these meetings!” What energy, and this with a so great tenderness of heart!
Let us love each other, dear Kate!