July 28, 1869.
Lord William is in England, and baby Emmanuel in vain asks for “papa.” What a beautiful child he is! My Guy is very handsome also, and I am proud of him. Johanna yields up to me all her prerogatives, and, were it not that he resembles Paul, I could persuade myself that he is quite my own, my dear godson.
Berthe intends to go to Lourdes, to obtain from Mary Immaculate the cure of her daughter. Poor mother! she deceives herself; the child cannot remain in this world, and the day approaches when we shall say, Yesterday the bird was in the cage, but is now flown hence! This morning Anna and the sick girl were leaning over my balcony, looking at the blue sky, over which light clouds were flying. “How beautiful the sky is!” said Anna. “Very sweet, very beautiful, very good,” answered Picciola, joining her hands. “The beauties of nature are admirable, but—” “Kiss me, dear, and don’t look up to heaven in that way; one would think you were going there!” “The truth is that I shall go soon; dear Anna, pray God to comfort my mother!” Anna flew into the room: “Madame, O madame! is this true that Madeleine is telling me?” And she was sobbing. Picciola covered her with kisses, saying: “Why will no one listen when I speak of my happiness?” When Anna was more calm I sent her to her mother, and said to my darling: “Then let us talk about heaven together.” “But, aunt, it grieves you also. Yet I, although the pain of those I love goes to my heart—I feel in myself an indescribable gladness. Oh! if you knew how I thirst for heaven.” “And who tells you that you are going to leave us, dear child? Our Lady of Lourdes will cure you.” “If you love me, do not ask me this; I must not be cured,” she murmured, with a sort of prayerful expression. What do you think about this child, dear Kate?
Our thoughts are much taken up, as you may imagine, with the Council and with Ireland. Adrien has read to us from a goodly folio, come from the Thebaid of our saint, the most sinister predictions with reference to the present time.
Good-by for a little while; I slip this note into Margaret’s envelope.
August 1, 1869.
St. Francis of Sales used to say: “People ask for secrets that they may advance in perfection; for my own part, I know of only one: to love God above all things, and my neighbor as myself.” And Bossuet, that other great master of the spiritual life, said: “Give all to God, search to the very depths, empty your heart for God; he will know very well how to employ and to fill it.” This is what Gertrude has done, who just now quoted these two thoughts to console me. Alas! yes, I cannot resign myself to see her depart, this enchanting soul, so worthy of love. “Remember,” Gertrude said to me, “that God undertakes to give back everything to those who have given him all. I perceive many sacrifices for you, dear Georgina; be worthy of God’s favors, for suffering is one of these.” And she quitted me. She lives so near to God that every word she utters seems to me an oracle, and now I am afraid. O poor soul!—a reed bending to every wind.
“Turn thee to Him who comforts and who heals.” Help me, dear Kate! René, Margaret, and Marcella agree in diverting my attention, but the blow has been given! O my God! If a whole family might but enter heaven all at the same time! if there were no tears of departure! I communicated this morning, and promised our adorable Jesus in the Blessed Eucharist to sacrifice my heart to him.
Berthe, Raoul, and Picciola set out to-morrow for Lourdes; we have not ventured to dissuade the poor mother from this idea. I had a foolish longing to follow them, but I saw in this a first sacrifice, and offered it to obtain courage. If, however, Mary would be pleased to cure her! They will make a novena there, and not return until the 16th. What a long time without seeing her!
Our country neighbor has installed himself, and yesterday paid us his first visit. My mother gave him a more than amiable reception. We all thanked him for the care with which he had attended Anna, who threw her arms round his neck with the greatest simplicity. Marcella replied gracefully to the civilities of the good doctor, who accepted an invitation to dinner. My mother finds him very well bred. He is fifty years of age, very tall, with an open and expressive countenance, most extensive learning, skill, wit, fortune, and above all faith; he is thus in every way worthy of my friend. René has explained this to me, and has ended by requesting me to favor this marriage.