O ye mothers! who may sound the depths of your sorrows? Happy as mothers are in their enchanted life of love and innocence, yet they are also martyrs, and who knows whether the gall in their chalice does not absorb the honey?
Beloved, in a few days I shall embrace you.
May 29.
God be praised, who is about to bring us together again, dear sister of my soul! It is settled that we are to return on the 1st of July, once more to salute Orleans. Hélène will at this date enter the novitiate at ——. The town is beginning to lose its inhabitants. Hélène and I traverse it in all directions to have another look at its curiosities: the fine old houses richly and deeply sculptured, historic dwellings, which remain standing after their inmates have disappeared. We are shown the house of Joan of Arc, of Francis I., of Agnes Sorel, of Diana of Poitiers—names with very dissimilar associations. One more visit to Benoni, a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Miracles, a halt at my bookseller’s, and my preparations will be ended.
Wrote to Sister Louise. I like to return to her twice in the year, to pay her this tribute of the heart with my tenderest affection. What a fine nature—an ideal! A soul
whom the world never touched who had no sooner finished her education than she gave herself to God, sacrificing even her last vacations. A nature so poetic, so rich and pure, that God reserved it for himself, and at the same time so charming and devoted that she spent herself wholly in affection upon those around her. Thus have I known and loved her, like an apparition from another world.
Good-by for the present, dear Kate. René, my so dear and gentle René, is more happy because of my happiness than I am myself—happiness moistened with tears, the tears of sacrifice. “What matters it where one weeps, or wherefore, since tears buy heaven?”
Hélène has given me a share of her heritage—a paralytic old woman whose succoring angel she has been. Every morning she went to the lowly room of the poor invalid, whom she dressed, and then with her patrician hands she made the bed, swept the room, and prepared the repast. After this she read to her out of some pious book, conversed with her a few minutes, and on leaving called a little girl of ten years old, who was charged to keep the poor woman company. I shall continue Hélène’s work.… In summer it is a neighbor who, for a slight remuneration, does all that is necessary; but Mariette, the femme de chambre, who is often employed to carry little comforts to the invalid, said to me with tears: “Nothing replaces mademoiselle, and the old woman says, ‘Summer is winter to me, for it takes away my sunshine!’” What praise, Kate, is it not? Can you not understand how Gertrude may well be proud of the treasure which is about to be taken from her? Cannot you understand also how much I
sympathize with her?—for my heart is bleeding from the same wound. Be happy, beloved Kate; we shall meet again where there are no separations to be feared, in our true fatherland.
May 31.