"The chevalier is no doubt in need of rest," said my brother; "we will go and see Madame de Farcy, and then he shall come back to dine and sleep."
A feeling of gladness entered my heart: the thought of my family amid an indifferent world was as balm to me. We went out. Cousin Moreau raised a storm about the badness of the room, and charged my host to put me at least one floor lower. We stepped into my brother's carriage and drove to the convent where Madame de Farcy lived.
Julie had been some time in Paris to consult the physicians. Her charming appearance, her elegance and her wit had soon caused her to be sought after. I have already said that she was born with a real talent for poetry. She became a saint, after having been one of the most attractive women of her age: the Abbé Carron wrote her life[184]. The apostles who go everywhere in search of souls feel for her the love which one of the Fathers of the Church attributes to the Creator: "When a soul reaches Heaven," says this Father, with the simplicity of heart of a Primitive Christian and the directness of Greek genius, "God takes it upon His knees and calls it His daughter."
Lucile has left a striking lament: À la sœur que je n'ai plus. The Abbé Carron's admiration for Julie explains and justifies Lucile's words. The narrative of the saintly priest also shows that I said true in the preface to the Génie du Christianisme, and serves as a proof for some portions of my Memoirs.
The innocent Julie gave herself up to repentance; she consecrated the treasures of her austerities to the redemption of her brothers; and following the example of the illustrious African her patron saint[185], she became a willing martyr.
The Abbé Carron, author of the Vie des justes, is the ecclesiastic from my part of the country[186], the Francis of Paula of exile, whose fame, revealed by the afflicted, pierced even through the fame of Bonaparte. The voice of a poor proscribed priest was not stifled by the noise of a revolution which overthrew society; he seems to have returned expressly from foreign shores to write of my sister's virtues: he sought among our ruins and found a forgotten victim and tomb.
When the new hagiographer describes Julie's pious cruelties, it is as though one heard Bossuet preach his sermon on the profession of faith of Mademoiselle de la Vallière[187]:
"Will she dare to touch that body so tender, so dear, so gently treated? Will she not take pity on that delicate complexion? On the contrary, it is that principally which the soul arraigns as its most dangerous seducer; she hems herself round with safeguards; fenced in in every direction, she can no longer breathe except heavenwards!"
*
I cannot suppress a certain confusion at reading my name in the last lines traced by the hand of Julie's venerable biographer. What have I, with my weaknesses, to do with such lofty perfections? Have I kept all that my sister's letter made me promise, when I received it during my emigration in London? Is a book sufficient for God? Is it not my life that I ought to offer Him? And is that life, pray, true to the Génie du Christianisme? What matter that I have drawn more or less brilliant pictures of religion, if my passions cast a shade over my faith! I have not gone on to the end; I have not donned the hair-shirt: that tunic of my viaticum would have drunk up and dried my sweat. Instead, a weary traveller, I sat down by the roadside: tired or not, I shall have to get up again in order to arrive where my sister has arrived.