On returning to Lyons we left our companion there, and went to Villeneuve. I have told you about this little town, my walks and my regrets on the banks of the Yonne with M. Joubert. Three old maids used to live there, Mesdemoiselles Piat; they reminded me of my grandmother's three friends at Plancoët, saving the difference in social position. The virgins of Villeneuve died one after the other, and I thought of them when I saw a grass-grown flight of steps, running up outside their empty house. What used these village damsels to talk about in their time! They spoke of a dog, and of a muff which their father had once bought them at Sens Fair. To me this was as charming as the council of the same town at which St. Bernard had Abélard, my fellow-Breton, condemned. The maids of the muff were Heloïses perhaps; perhaps they loved, and their letters, brought to light, will one day entrance posterity. Who knows? Perhaps they wrote to their "lord, also their father, also their brother, also their spouse: domino suo, imo patri," etc., that they felt honoured by the name of friend, by the name of "mistress" or of "courtesan: concubinæ vel scorti."
"In the midst of his learning," says a grave doctor, "I find that Abélard played an admirably foolish prank when he suborned with love his pupil Héloïse."
Illness of Lucile.
A great and new sorrow surprised me at Villeneuve. To tell it you, I must go back to a few months before my Swiss journey. I was still occupying the house in the Rue Miromesnil when, in the autumn of 1804, Madame de Caud came to Paris. The death of Madame de Beaumont had finished the affecting of my sister's reason; she was very near refusing to believe in the death, suspecting some mystery in the disappearance, or including Heaven in the number of the enemies who mocked at her misfortunes. She had nothing; I had chosen an apartment in the Rue Caumartin for her, deceiving her as to the rent and as to the arrangements which I told her to make with the keeper of an eating-house. Like a flame ready to expire, her genius shed the brightest light; she was all illumined with it. She would write a few lines which she threw into the fire, or else copy from books some thoughts in harmony with the disposition of her soul. She did not remain long in the Rue Caumartin; she went to live with the Dames Saint-Michel, in the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Jacques: Madame de Navarre was the superior of the convent. Lucile had a little cell overlooking the garden: I noticed that she followed with her eyes, with I know not what gloomy longing, the nuns who walked in the enclosure around the vegetable beds. One could guess that she envied the saints and, going further, aspired to the angels. I will sanctify these Memoirs by deposing in them, as relics, the following letters of Madame de Caud, written before she had taken flight for her eternal country:
"17 January.
"I had placed all my happiness in you and in Madame de Beaumont; I fled from my cares and my sorrows in the thought of you two: my whole occupation was to love you. Last night I made long reflections upon your character and your ways. As you and I are always near each other, it needs some time, I think, to know me, such is the variety of ideas in my head! Such is the opposition of my timidity and my peculiar external weakness to my real inner strength! Too much about myself. My illustrious brother, accept my fondest thanks for all the favours and all the marks of friendship which you have never ceased to show me. This is the last letter you will receive from me in the morning. Albeit I communicate my ideas to you, they nevertheless remain quite completely within myself."
(No date.)
"Do you seriously, dear, think me safe from some impertinence on the part of M. Chênedollé? I am quite determined not to invite him to continue his visits; I resign myself to look upon Tuesday's as the last. I do not wish to trouble his politeness. I am closing for ever the book of my fate, and sealing it with the seal of reason; I shall now consult its pages no more on the trifles than on the important things of life. I give up all my foolish notions; I wish neither to occupy nor to vex myself with those of other people; I will abandon myself with heart and soul to all the events of my passage through this world. What a pity that I should pay myself so much attention! God can now afflict me only in you. I thank Him for the precious, kind and dear present which He has made me in your person and for having preserved my life without stain: those are all my treasures. I could take for an emblem of my life the moon in a cloud, with this device: 'Often obscured, never tarnished.' Farewell, dear. You will perhaps be surprised at my words since yesterday morning. Since I saw you, my heart has raised itself to God, and I have laid it wholly at the foot of the Cross, its sole and true place."
"Thursday.
"Good-morning, dear. What colour are your ideas this morning? As for me, I remember that the only person who was able to relieve me when I was fearing for Madame de Farcy's life was she who said to me, 'But it is within the range of possible things that you may die before her.' Could any one have spoken more to the point? There is nothing, dear, like the idea of death to rid us of the future. I hasten to rid you of myself this morning, for I feel myself too much in the mood to say fine things. Good-bye, my poor brother. Keep joyful."
(No date.)
"While Madame de Farcy lived, always by her side, I had not noticed the need of being in communion of thought with some one. I possessed that advantage unconsciously. But since we lost that friend, and circumstances having separated me from you, I have known the torture of never being able to refresh and renew one's mind in some one's conversation; I feel that my ideas hurt me when I am unable to get rid of them; this has surely to do with my bad organization. Nevertheless I am fairly satisfied, since yesterday, with my courage. I pay no attention to my grief and to the sort of inward faintness which I feel. I have abandoned myself. Continue to be always kind to me: before long it will be humanity. Good-bye, dear. Till soon, I hope."
Lucile's letters.
(No date.)
"Be easy, dear; my health is recovering visibly. I often ask myself why I take so much pains to bolster it up. I am like a madman who should build a fortress in the middle of a desert. Farewell, my poor brother."