Among the pleasant features of that period, I must not forget that of Victor’s success. Before he was appointed editor, the poor paper vegetated. There were but few subscribers. No one spoke of the obscure sheet which timidly defended sound principles and true doctrines. What a sad figure it made in the presence of its contemporary, The Independent—a shameless, arrogant journal which boasted of despising all religious belief, and scoffed at the honest people foolish enough to read it!
Victor had scarcely been chief editor of this despised paper three months before there was a decided change. Every day added to the list of subscribers. The Catholic Journal was spoken of on all sides. The sceptical, even, discussed it. As to The Independent, it was forced to descend into the arena. In spite of itself, it had to engage in conflict against an adversary as skilled in irony as in logic. I acknowledge I was proud of Victor’s success, and, what was more, it made me happy. For a long time, young as I was, I had groaned at seeing Catholic interests so poorly defended. They were now as ably sustained as I could wish, and by the man whom I loved. All my wishes were surpassed!
Nevertheless, there is no perfect happiness in this world. Even those blissful years were not exempt from sorrow. God granted me twice, with an interval of two years, the long-wished-for joy of being a mother, but each time Providence only allowed its continuance a few months. My first child, a boy, died at the end of six months. The second, a daughter, was taken from me before it was a year old. You are young, my friend and cannot understand how afflicting such losses are. A mother’s heart, I assure you, is broken when she sees her child taken from her, however young it may be. My husband himself was greatly distressed when our little boy was carried off after an illness of only a few hours. But his grief was still more profound when our little girl died. Dear child! though only nine months old, her face was full of intelligence, her eyes were expressive, and she had a wonderful way of making herself understood. She passed quietly away, softly moaning, and gazing at us with affection. Her father held her in his arms the whole time of her long agony. It seemed as if he thus hoped to retain her. She, too, was sad, I am sure. She seemed to know we were in grief, and to leave us with regret. Her sweet face only resumed its joyful expression after her soul had taken flight for heaven; then a celestial happiness beamed from her features consecrated by death. Victor stood gazing at her a long time as she lay on the bed with a crucifix in her innocent hands. His lips murmured a prayer in a low tone. It seemed to me he was addressing our angel child—begging her to pray that God would speedily call him to dwell for ever with her in his blissful presence. The thought made me shudder. It seemed as if I had at that moment an interior revelation. I knew that was Victor’s prayer, and I had a presentiment it would be heard.
From that day, though we had a thousand reasons to consider ourselves happy, we were no longer light-hearted as we once had been. There was a something that weighed on our minds and kept us anxious, and empoisoned all our joys. Life seemed unsatisfactory, and we drew nearer to God. We were constantly speaking of him and the angel who had flown from us, and we often approached the sacraments together. It was thus that God was secretly preparing Victor to return to him, and me to endure so terrible a blow.
CHAPTER V.
AN UNEXPECTED ASSAULT.
No man was ever more fond of domestic life than Victor. The happiest hours of the day were those we all spent together—he, my mother, my young sister, and myself—occupied in some useful work, but often stopping to exchange a few words. It was with regret Victor sometimes left us at such hours to mingle with the world. He refused all invitations to dinners, soirées, and balls as often as possible, but he could not always do so. He had taken the first place—a place quite exceptional—in local journalism, and it was impossible for him to decline all the advances made him. Besides, he wished, as was natural to one of his profession, to ascertain for himself public opinion on the question of the day. I cannot tell you how dull the evenings seemed when he was away, or how anxious I was till he returned. There was something dreadful about his profession. In vain he resolved to avoid personalities; they were often discovered when none had been intended. If he was fortunately able to keep within the limits he had marked out for himself, and confined himself to the defence of justice, morality, and religion, he found these three great causes had furious opponents. Whoever defended them incurred the ardent ill-will of the enemies of all good. This is what happened to Victor. Their secret hatred burst forth on an occasion of but little importance.
A renowned preacher of the South, worthy in every respect of his reputation, came to preach at the cathedral during Advent. This man, as eloquent as he was good, attacked the vices of the day with all the ardor of an apostle. Many of the young men of the place who went to hear him were infuriated at the boldness of his zeal. Some supposed themselves to be meant in the portraits he drew of vicious men in a manner so forcible and with such striking imagery as to make his hearers tremble. At the close of one of these sermons, there was some disturbance in the body of the church. Threats were uttered aloud, and women treated with insult. Victor, indignant at such conduct, had the courage to rebuke the corrupt young men of the place. Never had he been more happily inspired, and never had he produced such an effect. The article was everywhere read. It gave offence, and we awaited the consequences.
The next day Victor received an invitation to a large ball given by a wealthy banker. The invitation surprised him, for he knew the banker was a liberal with but little sympathy for the priesthood and its defenders. I begged Victor to decline the invitation politely. I feared it was only a pretext to offer him some affront. He gently reassured me by saying that, though M. Beauvais was a liberal, he had the reputation of being an honorable man. “I am glad,” added he, “to become acquainted with those who frequent the banker’s salon. I shall probably find more than one Christian among them,” as, in fact, often happened.
When the night came, Victor went away, leaving me quite uneasy, in spite of all his efforts to reassure me. I made him promise to return at an early hour. I was beginning to be anxious towards eleven, when all at once there was a sound of hasty footsteps. I sprang to the door—I opened it—it was he. As soon as he entered the room, I noticed he was extremely pale. He vainly endeavored to appear calm, but could not conceal the agitation that overpowered him.