I turned over the leaves of the Journal, and gave myself up to its fascinations, where the least object, an insect that flies, a bird that sings, a ray of light penetrating the blinds, inspired her with those charming thoughts, those poetical pages, like a harmony of Lamartine, fine and profound as a passage of La Rochefoucauld. Her thoughts take at times the most unexpected flights, sublime transports, like an elevation of Bossuet's.
Never perhaps has there been a more delicate organization, a more susceptible imagination. Her soul was like an Æolian harp which vibrates to the slightest breath.
Mlle. de Guérin wrote with a golden pen. I would compare her to Madame Sévigné, if Madame Sévigné was less frivolous. The latter amuses and dazzles, the former captivates and touches; the one is as bright as a lark, the other dreamy as a dove. The first has more genius, the second more soul. There is more sentimentality in Madame de Sévigné, in Eugénie de Guérin more sentiment. The writings of one skim over the surface of the soul, those of the other penetrate it. We can admire Madame de Sévigné, we love Eugénie de Guérin.
Before me, hanging to the framework of her library, is a picture of St. Thérèse de Gérard, a present to her from the Baroness de Rivières. I re-read the passage suggested by this little engraving, those aspirations toward contemplative life, which reveal such tender piety, such deep and true devotion. This pure heart turned naturally toward heaven, like the mariner's needle, which always points to the north. "She was of those souls," said Mgr. Mermillod, "who in the midst of our material cares hear the Sursum Corda of the Holy Church, and who delight in these noble and holy aspirations." "We can make a church everywhere," says she in some of her writings.
I open the window, and, like her, I contemplate the beautiful night—the country half-buried in shadows, the myriads of stars, which, like golden nails, sustain the blue tapestry of heaven. All is silence, meditation, mystery; a single murmur, that of the stream.
It sings for me, as it formerly did for Eugénie. In looking back into the past, I ask myself if I have ever spent a sweeter hour or experienced more vivid emotions.
Adieu, it is midnight. Expect soon a sequel to this letter.
To M. l'Abbé L., Quebec.
Paris, August 9, 1867.
... At five o'clock in the morning, I heard a knock at my door. I was already up. The previous evening I had made an arrangement with Mlle. de Guérin to go to Andillac, where I wished to say Mass, and visit the graves of Maurice and Eugénie.