May 10, 1869.
What rejoicings, dearest! On the 7th the magnificent torchlight procession, the illumination with Bengal lights, which never succeeded so well; the interior of the city resplendent with lights; the assembled bishops blessing the multitudes—what a fine spectacle! Mgr. de Bonnechose, Mgr. de la Tour-d’Auvergne, Mgr. Guibert, Mgr. Meignan, Mgr. Gignoux, Mgr. Foulon, Mgr. de Las Cases, Mgr. La Carrière, Mgr. Pie, etc., etc.—it was splendid! On the 8th, the panegyric, which I send you, in order that you may judge of it better than from my account. For two hours, Monseigneur held his auditory under the charm of his words;
he showed us the saint in the young girl, in the warrior-maiden, and in the victim. Then the procession. On the 9th, grand festival at Sainte-Croix—anniversary of the dedication of this cathedral. On that memorable day, when the bishop raised his hand to give the blessing, a mysterious hand appeared, blessing also, since which time the arms of the chapter have been a cross surmounted by a hand surrounded by rays. This celestial hand is also painted on the vaulted roof above the altar, and I had often wondered what it meant. I am no longer surprised at the attraction I feel towards Sainte-Croix. God loves to be worshipped there. Mgr. de Bourges officiated at High Mass, and also at Vespers. He is singularly majestic. People were crushing each other to see him. The ceremonies were too magnificent ever to be forgotten; it is impossible to imagine anything like them. Oh! what joy to be there, all together, mingled in this assembly of brethren.
What month can be more pleasing to our hearts than this month of May, gathering into itself, as it does, the most delightful festivals? It seems to me that with the passing breeze a thousand memories revive within my soul: my childhood, which devotion to the Blessed Virgin clothed in so much poetry; this beloved month, when my mother used to assemble us every evening, with the village girls, to pray and sing; the flowers which we had valiantly conquered or begged, and whose fragrance filled the oratory; the symbolic tapers; we ourselves quiet and recollected, but so light-hearted that an unknown word in what we were singing would make us laugh to ourselves; the sun shedding floods of gold on this
charming scene, playing over the white Madonna, on the lilacs and roses, on the golden locks and the brown, on the rosaries and blue ribbons. How far off is that time!
Read with the children the journeys of Captain Hatteras. Truly, there is something to be gleaned everywhere, if only one knows how to see it. Only imagine! in the midst of these adventurous men there is a worthy doctor, Clawbonny, always doing the things which are most disagreeable to himself. Why was he not a Catholic? Nothing would then have been wanting to him; while this book is cold—cold as the North Pole.
Picciola is always pale. I proposed to Berthe to take her to Paris. “Do you think there may be danger?” and her voice trembled. What was I to answer? I have a conviction that she is mortally affected, and nothing can do away with this conviction. My answer was, “I think it would be as well to consult some one there.” I am to take her with me, therefore, and you will see this angel before she departs to heaven. All about her is heavenly. She is a sunbeam, a luminous flower, a living soul; and this blessing has been lent us for a day!
Margaret will be in Brittany about the 24th of June. My mother speaks of leaving towards the end of the month. I want to give you a fortnight; I need a large provision of courage. Anna is charming, wonderfully stronger: it is like a miracle.
Let us pray, dear Kate—I do so long for her to live!
May 19, 1869.