LIBRARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 University of California. 
 
 Class 
 
4 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
LONDON: PBIXTED BT 
 
 BPOTTISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STRBET SQUiEB 
 
 AND FAKLIAMENT STBEET 
 
A SISTEE'S STOKY 
 
 BY 
 
 MES. AUGUSTUS CEAVEN. 
 
 TBANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY 
 
 EMILY BOWLES. 
 
 Fundamenta aetema super petram solidam, et mandata Dei 
 in corde mulieris sanctae.* 
 
 ECCLUS. xxvi. 24. 
 
 LONDON: 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1869. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
*%% 
 
TO 
 
 LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON, 
 
 WHOSE NUMBERLESS ACTS OF HIDDEN KINDNESS 
 BRING COMFORT, 
 
 A-8 HER FRIENDSHIP LENDS STRENGTH, 
 
 @)^b ITabour of "^oht is offeub 
 
 BY 
 
 THE TKANSLATOE. 
 
 201800 
 
MY GOD, 
 
 THY NAME IS THE FIRST WRITTEN AS I BEGIN THIS BOOK. 
 
 I DESIRE THAT IT MAY MOVE MEN TO 
 LOVE THOSE REMEMBERED IN IT: 
 
 BUT FAR MORE EARNESTLY I DESIRE THAT IT MAY KINDLE 
 
 LOVE FOR THEE. 
 
^ Of THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 A SISTEK'S STORY 
 
 PART I. 
 
 Give me the pleasure with the pain, 
 So would I live and love, again. 
 
 ITCH are the words in whicli a modern poet embodied 
 the feeling which leads us to cherish the most sorrow- 
 ful memories, rather than bury in oblivion the joys 
 and the griefs of the past. This has always been my 
 own feehng, and I never could admit as a truth of 
 general application the assertion contained in Dante's famous 
 lines : — 
 
 Nessun maggior dolore, 
 Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
 Nella miseria. 
 
 No ; I do not wish to forget either the joys or the sorrows I 
 have known. I bless God for both, and I bless Him also that 
 He has made me love to dwell constantly on the remembrance of 
 those with whom it was so delightful to live. The thought of 
 those happy days spent with them has ever been a joy, not a 
 sorrow to me ; and far from wishing to lose the recollection of 
 the past, my most fervent desire is to preserve it faithfully im- 
 pressed on my mind, and to succeed in making others know and 
 appreciate the beloved ones whose society imparted so great 
 a charm to bygone days. I delight in thinking of them and 
 speaking of them since their deaths, just as I used to delight in 
 talking to them, and being with them, when they were on earth. 
 My chief occupation has been to collect and arrange whatever 
 papers and letters I could obtain that bore the stamp of their 
 thoughts and minds ; and I must plead guilty to a feeling of 
 affectionate pride in seeing even comparative strangers struck 
 and interested by portions of these manuscripts, which I have, 
 as I said, undertaken to put together in a consecutive form. It 
 will please me, I own, to extend the sweet influence of their ex- 
 amples and of their memory beyond their domestic circle, and to 
 make many acquainted with them who may have met them in the 
 world without knowing, though, it may be, not without noticing 
 
 B 
 
A SISTEB'S STOBY. 
 
 them. If any of these should be ignorant of the love of God, 
 this work may perhaps inspire them with a desire to learn more 
 of the Divine principle which pervades every line of it and mixes 
 with every thought. I cannot but hope that they would find in 
 it some interest, and would not close the book without question- 
 ing whether it can be really true that the pious habits of a Catholic 
 life 'impede the development of the mind, enslave the soul,' * 
 or harden the heart ; and if it is not, on the contrary, evident 
 that those beings so devoted to God would have lost, even in the 
 eyes of men, their greatest charm, had they lacked that piety 
 which was the mainspring of their lives. 
 
 I should be glad, indeed, if certain writers of our own day, who 
 draw such repulsive pictures of women, would study this record 
 in which all the feelings of youth are faithfully portrayed. Could 
 they assert, in the face of it, that a heart, habitually under the 
 influence of the Divine Presence, must necessarily be wanting in 
 tenderness towards relatives and friends, or lack enthusiasm for 
 whatever is beautiful in nature and art ? Could they maintain 
 that the habitual remembrance of the world to come must fill 
 the mind with sadness and with afiected solemnity, or suppose 
 that the subjects of this memoir, whose manners and conver- 
 sation delighted even strangers, were ever considered stifi" and 
 morose because of their piety ? It is precisely because they 
 lived in the world and followed its ordinary customs, and were 
 not recluses and inmates of the cloister, that I hopa the history 
 of their hves will prove useful to many who turn away dismayed 
 and discouraged from examples of more austere sanctity. 
 
 My chief difficulty has arisen from the abundance of materials 
 which the death of my beloved ones has placed in my hands ; 
 from the perplexity of deciding what to select and what to sup- 
 press. Amongst these treasures there exists one so complete and 
 interesting that in itself it would furnish materials for a separate 
 work. I mean the story of Alexandrine, who, by her marriage 
 with my brother Albert, became my sister ; a sister so dear and 
 so intimately united to me, that the tie of blood could scarcely 
 have bound us more closely together. When we first met in 
 Russia, in the early days of our girlhood, and again in Italy, in 
 the brightest period of our youth, Alexandrine was endeared to 
 me by similarity of age, of tastes, and by all that inspires mutual 
 affection between young people, as well as by sympathy in higher 
 and hoher joys. Our friendship remained one of those which 
 nothing in life can change, and which death itself cannot weaken. 
 When this beloved friend married into our family, she became, so 
 entirely one of us, that I do not think my mother could have felt 
 
 * Lord Kussell's Letter to the Bishop of Durham. 
 
A SISTEB'S STOBY. 
 
 diflferently towards her had she been her own daughter. Since 
 that time Providence has allotted us some of the sweetest and 
 darkest hours life can present. After sharing joys and sorrows 
 such as are not often met with, our friendship was cemented by 
 the strongest and most sacred of all ties. United as we had been 
 by common tastes, feehngs, and inclinations, we were at last bound 
 together by the highest of all sympathies, that of a common fiith. 
 From that time forward, amidst our many and severe trials, we 
 experienced consolations so deep and so Divine, that we both 
 reckoned those years of our lives, without comparison, the most 
 precious. 
 
 Alexandrine's life was divided into two periods : one filled with 
 varied incidents and strong emotions ; the other by God alone, 
 sought and found in the perfect surrender and sacrifice of self ; 
 a surrender so entire, and a sacrilBce so sweet, that the word 
 happiness can properly be applied only to this part of her exist- 
 ence. The first dawn of that new happiness arose at the very 
 time when it seemed to her that she was parting for ever with 
 everything to which she had till then given that name. But 
 before this consummation was arrived at, at a time when the 
 world, with all that love, youth, and pleasure could add of attrac- 
 tion, had vanished from her sight, and the future presented 
 nothing but a gloomy prospect of bitter sufferings, unsustained 
 by any consolation, Alexandrine found her greatest solace in 
 noting down all she could recollect of her life from the first 
 moment that she had met with Albert till the day of his death. 
 She called this memoir, ' Our Love and our Life,' and filled it 
 with such copious and minute details, that, though covering only 
 the space of four years, it furnishes three thick volumes of manu- 
 script. The first is entitled ' Love ; ' the second, ' Love and 
 Marriage;' the third, 'Love, Marriage, and Death.' These 
 three divisions comprise so much that is at once simple and 
 sublime, passionate and romantic, pious and heart-rending, sid 
 written in a charming, affecting, natural manner, that it seems 
 almost a pity not to give it to the world in its fulness. Still 
 there is no doubt that a narrative extending over a number 
 of years, and filled in hour by hour, presents a photographic 
 biography which can be uninterruptedly interesting only to 
 intimate friends. Besides which, the almost morbid truthfulness 
 which was Alexandrine's peculiar characteristic, her anxiety to 
 note down every action, word, and even thought, with scru- 
 pulous exactness, her horror of exaggeration, her desire to relate 
 the evil as well as the good with equal sincerity, made her indulge 
 in an abundance of superfluous details, which prolong her narra- 
 tive to a tedious extent. Many a time when, leaning over her 
 
 s2 
 
A SISTER'S STOEY. 
 
 slionlder, I read what she had been writing, I used to entreat her 
 to shorten and compress those pages in which we were equally 
 interested. Little did I then think that I should survive all the 
 principal actors in that sorrowful drama, and that it would be 
 one day my task to present it, not only to sorrowing friends, 
 but to that awful unknown world, the Public ! 
 
 I intend, therefore, to give ample extracts from Alexandrine's 
 manuscript, not only because it accurately relates what took place, 
 but because the characters of those whose history it gives are 
 best learned from its pages. Besides Albert's portrait, which 
 none could have drawn as she did, there appears that of Eugenie, 
 the charming beloved sister, whose image is always the dearest 
 and brightest in my heart. Eugenie, whose love was my greatest 
 treasure, and whose death, after so many years, still remains the 
 keenest, most distinct, and ineffaceable of all my sorrows. She 
 £lled as great a part in Alexandrine's life as in mine, and her 
 manuscript makes frequent mention of her. With Albert's death 
 the record comes to an end, and I should have been greatly at 
 a loss how to complete Alexandrine's history if the thread of the 
 narrative had not been carried on by her own and Eugenie's cor- 
 respondence, together with the letters of my young sister Olga, 
 who rapidly trod the same upward path, and at the age of twenty 
 gave up her soul like a young saint into the Hands of God. 
 
 I have only to add that when, from time to time, I have intro- 
 duced into these volumes what I had myself written in former 
 days, it has been for the sole purj)ose of filling up interruptions 
 in the narrative, or connecting together what would have been 
 otherwise a series of fragments. If I . am blamed for it, or if 
 the style of these insertions should be found inferior to the rest 
 of the book, I shall not be surprised or disappointed, provided 
 that this work soothes the sorrows and touches the feelings of 
 pious and gentle hearts, for whom alone it is intended. God 
 forbid that any literary vanity or desire of praise should mingle 
 with the motives which have influenced this publication. 
 
 • 
 
 My brother Charles was not born until my parents had been 
 married several years, and he was for a considerable time their 
 only child. Later on they had as many as ten children, four of 
 whom died young. The remaining seven grew up and attained 
 a mature age.* 
 
 * This was the case at the time the above lines were written. Since then 
 the two brothers who had survived Albert, whose life and death form the prin- 
 cipal subject of the ensuing memoir, have been taken from us. Charles died 
 in 1863, after a long illness, endured with Christian fortitude. Fernand, the 
 
A SISTEB'S STOBY. 
 
 In 1819 my father was appointed Frencli Ambassador at St. 
 Petersburgh, and it was in that city that the early years of my 
 childhood were spent. But, however pleasant, I do not care to 
 dwell upon them, for at that time Eugenie, who was some years 
 younger than myself, was almost a stranger to me. At that age 
 the difference of studies, hours, and occupations creates a real 
 separation between sisters, and Eugenie, in after life, used to 
 laugh and say that she had made my acquaintance on\j in 1829. 
 It was in Italy that this acquaintanceship began, and I find it 
 alluded to in some notes of my own, written at the time when 
 I was first obliged to learn to live without her. I will make 
 some extracts from these notes. 
 
 'Having left Paris in 1829, I proceeded to Italy with my 
 father, then seriously ill, and after my mother and Eugenie had 
 joined us, we established ourselves at the Villa Civitella, near 
 Lucca, intending to spend the rest of the summer there. In the 
 same place, but in another house, thirteen years later, my father 
 and Eugenie spent the last summer of their lives ; but now, in 
 1829, long years of happiness seemed to be in store for us, and 
 this one in particular, the first we passed in Italy, as I look back 
 to it, appears to me radiant with enjoyment and delight. Eugenie's 
 governess had remained in Paris, and it seemed to us as if for the 
 first time in our lives we were really together. We had indeed a 
 third companion in our cousin, Elizabeth de Belle vue, but she 
 was not only no obstacle to our intimacy, but added a charm 
 to it by the holy and good thoughts with which her mind was 
 always stored. Eugenie had always loved me, but until the time 
 I am speaking of she had never felt perfectly at her ease with me. 
 Then began a strict friendship, and one that can never cease. I 
 had already been introduced into society, and amused myself very 
 much in that new world I had become acquainted with. Now I 
 wanted Eugenie to share that amusement with me, but she shrank 
 from going out, and wished neither to see nor to be seen. She had 
 contrived to hurt her foot about the time that the Grand Duke 
 w^as about to give a ball, and wanted to make this an excuse for 
 staying at home. Her foot, however, became well enough to per- 
 mit of her going to this ball. She found it less formidable than 
 she had imagined, and we both amused ourselves extremely. 
 From that night forward there were no parties worth anything 
 to either of us unless we enjoyed them together. 
 
 'I began to read to her out loud, and I made her acquainted 
 with some of my favourite English poets. She had always de- 
 
 youngest, expired, suddenly this very year whilst drJA-ing in the carriao:e with 
 the Prince (the Comte de Chambord) to whom he had. devoted his hfe. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 clared that she was not clever enough to take pleasure in literature, 
 and when she discovered how thoroughly she liked and appreciated 
 everything beautiful, she confessed her surprise with the utmost 
 naivete, maintaining with her characteristic humility that it was 
 I who made her enjoy what — without me — she would neither 
 have understood, appreciated, nor cared for. This fancy, which 
 arose from her affection for me, and her very low opinion of her- 
 self, is often reverted to in her letters, in the sweetest and most 
 endearing manner, and that time spoken of as one of the most 
 intense happiness. 
 
 ' We remained at the Villa Civitella until September, and then 
 set out with our excellent friends M. and Madame de Marcellus 
 on an expedition tlirough the North of Italy. We visited Venice, 
 Milan, Como, and Lecco, and returning by Bellaggio to Lugano 
 and the Lago Maggiore, went to Arona and Baveno, where we met 
 the courier, who was bringing my father the news of his appoint- 
 ment as ambassador at Rome. This circumstance hastened our 
 return to France, which we reached by way of the Simplon. We 
 crossed the magnificent pass for the first time, full of the joyous 
 sense of present happiness, and the glowing anticipations of future 
 delights. We did not go directly to Paris, but to Montigny, not 
 far from Vendome, on the banks of the Loire, an estate belonging 
 to our parents, but which had been to us a home more in name 
 than in reality. It had never seemed to us so attractive as during 
 the last months of that year. In January my father started for 
 Rome, with my brother Charles and our young sister-in-law, and 
 I returned to Paris with our mother and Eugenie for the winter. 
 It was not until the month of April, 1830, that we joined my 
 father at Rome. To return to Italy was a greater pleasure than 
 even to see it for the first time, and the delight of this joamey 
 accordingly surpassed that of the previous one. Besides, we were 
 now for the first time on our way to Rome, the object of my longing 
 dreams since my earliest childhood. It was the loveliest season 
 of the year. I had my sister with me, to sympathise in all my 
 feelings, and we were looking forward to being once more with 
 my father, who was to take us into society, and to make us spend 
 our time in the pleasantest manner possible. In short, not a cloud 
 darkened the bright aspect of the present or of the future, and of 
 all the happy periods of my life, this always remains in my mind 
 as the very sunniest. 
 
 ' On the first or second of May we drove into Rome, in a thick 
 fog, which the feeble light of the moon could scarcely struggle 
 through. By this fitful gleam, however, I first beheld Rome, and 
 as we passed the Porta del Popolo, I felt deeply impressed. The 
 French embassy was then at the Palazzo Simonetti, in the Corso, 
 
A SISTEE'S STORY. 
 
 and there we soon arrived. My father and my sister-in-law 
 greeted us with the warmest welcome, and we were led up along 
 ihe broad staircase to the apartments, which he had arranged in 
 the most perfect manner for our comfort. During the short time 
 of our stay at the Simonetti Palace, we were thoroughly happy, 
 and often in after life our thoughts flew wistfully back to that 
 too brief residence in Rome. We little imagined that those 
 charming three months would be the last we should ever spend 
 in the enjoyment of that degree of position and fortune. 
 
 ' In July we left Rome for Naples, for my father was begin- 
 ning to suffer from the heat, and was ordered to change the air. 
 It had been at first settled that he was to go alone, in which 
 case our subsequent life would probably have turned out a very 
 different one, for if the news of the events of July had reached 
 us at Rome, we should probably have left Italy immediately, and 
 never seen Naples at all. As it was, we had all been settled 
 there three weeks, when the tidings of the revolution of " the 
 three days," the 28th, 29th, and 30tli of July, burst upon us like 
 a thunder-clap. 
 
 ' My father instantly sent in his resignation, and we were all 
 going back to Rome in order to pack up our things and leave 
 Italy altogether, when suddenly my two little sisters, Olga and 
 Albertine, fell so ill, that my mother was not able to leave them. 
 Thus no plans could be made for the future, and everything that 
 had been arranged was unsettled. My sister in-law, Emma (my 
 brother Charles's wife), and I, accompanied my father to Rome. 
 Again, after that short interval of three weeks, we beheld our 
 dear home in the Palazzo Simonetti, now half unfurnished and 
 dismantled, and filled with packages lying about in sad con- 
 fusion. A pair of beautiful horses, and a caleche, which had been 
 sent from Vienna for my father, were to be sold on the morrow. 
 We took our single and last drive in it round the walls of Rome. 
 That evening was melancholy enough. I regretted Rome exceed- 
 ingly, and I regretted also the loss of the delightful position we 
 had occupied there. But I did not allow myself to indulge in 
 these feelings, for my father had always carefully prepared us 
 for an impending change of circumstances, and thus strengthened 
 us against the evil day. I quickly recovered my spirits, and de- 
 termined not to be cast down by any change of fortune, nor to 
 add one feather's weight to the sorrow my dear father felt on 
 our account, and also for France. 
 
 ' I returned to Naples in September, and was heartily glad to 
 find myself once more with my mother and Eugenie. They had 
 established themselves in a little villa at Castellamare, which 
 seemed to us very ugly and desolate after the charming houses 
 
A SISTEB'S STORY. 
 
 we had left. The Httle room in particular where I slept, with 
 Eugenie and Emma, appeared more dismal and shabby than 
 even the rest of the house ; but the view from it was so mag- 
 nificent, that we gradually became reconciled to its defects. There 
 was one great saloon, bare and empty, the windows of which 
 looked full on the Bay of Naples and the heights of Castella- 
 mare. Into this room we brought our tables and chairs, and 
 Eugenie, Emma, Albert, and I, spent our mornings there, reading, 
 writing, talking, and laughing, though in utter ignorance of what 
 was to become of us for the future. We fancied our fate might 
 resemble that of our parents during the first emigration ; that we 
 might be reduced to a state approaching to destitution, and on this 
 prevision we formed our plans. Eugenie was to give music les- 
 sons, and I determined on taking a situation as nursery gover- 
 ness. Despite these castles in the air, the beginning of the year 
 1831 found us established once more in a very pretty house on 
 the Chiaja, next door to Sir Richard Acton's palace, where his 
 mother, Lady Acton, used to receive. Instead of the lowly 
 destiny we had been forecasting, we spent the winter in the most 
 brilliant and agreeable society. Lady Acton gathered round her 
 all the young people of her acquaintance, with whom we danced, 
 sang, represented tableaux, and acted plays. Indeed, our evenings 
 were spent in such incessant gaiety, that the retrospect gave 
 Eugenie many fits of remorse, and later in life she used often to 
 say that she did not like to look back to that time. But I, who 
 am less scrupalous, must own that I do so with unalloyed pleasure. 
 We were so happy together ! And then her humility was so 
 genuine, her simplicity of heart so unspoilt, her gaiety so childlike 
 and contagious, that I am sure she could have no occasion for self- 
 reproach, even during what she called her worldly life. Compli- 
 ments addressed to herself never gave her the least pleasui'e, 
 whereas, if something flattering was said about her darling Pauline, 
 she was delighted. It offended her mortally to be told that anybody 
 liked her better than me, or even that her eyes or teeth were 
 prettier than mine. She could not endure to be asked to dance 
 if I had not a partner, and what annoyed her particularly was, 
 that the young king always danced with her, and never with me. 
 During all that time I do not remember to have seen her in any 
 instance vain, frivolous, or occupied with herself, but -was the 
 same humble, devoted, unselfish being as ever. I therefore think 
 and believe, that God passed a less severe judgment upon those 
 days than she did herself. There were bright moments when 
 we especially enjoyed the delight of being together. For in- 
 stance, when at about five o'clock in the morning we went into 
 the garden of the Acton Palace to gather flowers for our evening 
 
A SISTEB'S STORY. 9 
 
 banquets. We then conversed more intimately than ever, and 
 very seldom did it happen that we did not say, over and over 
 again, at those times, " Oh, how nice it is to be together ! " We 
 often spoke, too, of God and of Heaven, for we were never long 
 without interchanging thoughts of this kind. I have often re- 
 membered it since with pleasure, but I must honestly admit, that 
 we talked also of the party of the preceding night, and of the 
 friends we hoped to meet again in the evening. The perfume of 
 the nosegays we made during those morning strolls remained 
 associated with memories still sweeter than themselves. Neither 
 of us in after days could smell the peculiar scent of those Neapo- 
 litan flowers without being carried back to that palace garden ; 
 without beholding again — in imagination — that southern sea, that 
 cloudless sky, all the bright dreams and visions of our youth, 
 which a sudden whiif of the familiar fragrance would still con- 
 jure up, after the lapse of many sadder years. 
 
 ' In May, 1831, we made a delightful expedition to the Villa 
 Sora, to stay with M. Lefebvre,* whose eldest daughter Flavie 
 (Marquise de Raigecourt) was Eugenie's greatest friend. Often 
 separated during life, they were singularly brought together 
 towards its close, and dying nearly at the same time, are now 
 doubtless united in their eternal home. Charles and Emma had 
 left us before this visit, after which we went again to Castellamare, 
 and remained there till the end of the summer. Femand was 
 away, and Albert, the only one of my brothers who stayed on 
 with us, sympathised so entirely in all my tastes, that I was 
 scarcely more attached to Eugenie than to him. I need not 
 describe Albert, for the work I have undertaken will, as it 
 goes on, amply make known his character. But though I had 
 always loved him as the kindest and gentlest of brothers, I 
 did not at first discern how much there was to be admired 
 in his mind and character. He had enjoyed, perhaps, even 
 more than we did, our stay at Naples, but it had been a inore 
 dangerous visit to him than to us. Several times during the 
 course of that winter he had said that it was not good for him 
 to remain in a place where a serious kind of life was impossible, 
 and that he would soon leave us for a while, to fortify his soul in 
 some solitude. This he actually did in the course of the follow- 
 ing autumn. I found him one day walking alone, and sad, on 
 the ten-ace before the house. We paced up and down together 
 for a long time, and he told me he was very much out of spirits, 
 and dissatisfied with himself; for that he really wanted to be 
 good, and to fill his mind with great and noble desires, but that 
 at Naples it was too easy to lose sight of all thoughts of this 
 * The Comte de BalsOiTano. 
 
10 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 kind ; that he had not strength enough to keep his resolutions, 
 and that he had been saying the same thing to his father, who 
 had consented to his leaving us, so that he was really going 
 away for a time. 
 
 ' I felt very sorry to hear this ; I liked to be with him better 
 than with any one else in the world, and his absence would 
 make, I thought, a sad blank in our home circle. He did go about a 
 week afterwards to Florence, to join his friend M. Rio, with whom 
 he made an expedition into Tuscany, visiting every place of reli- 
 gious or historical note in that part of Italy. The interest these 
 scenes inspired and the amount of reading requisite in order to 
 make this tour a profitable one, speedily restored to Albert the 
 energy which Naples had weakened. When he returned to 
 Florence he made a sort of retreat, at the close of which he 
 approached the sacraments, and fixed on a rule of life which he 
 never ceased to observe till the day of his death. These resolu- 
 tions, and the desire to regulate his future life, were confirmed 
 by the acquaintance he made that year with Count Charles de 
 Montalembert.* From that time forward a strict friendshij) 
 united them. With his two excellent companions [Montalembert 
 ^ and Rio], Albert made some further stay in Florence, and went 
 with them to Rome in January, 1832, where, as if to reward 
 him for his good resolutions, he found in Alexandrine, whom 
 he there saw for the first time, the true love, the object and the 
 happiness of his Hfe.' 
 
 And here begins the actual story of Alexandrine ; not hers 
 alone, indeed, but that of many others, especially in the first 
 part of her narrative. Her memoir is somewhat desultory, con- 
 sisting as it does of all the papers she could collect connected 
 with the four years over which it extends ; of her journal and 
 Albert's, of their letters to each other, and those they wrote to 
 intimate friends, connected more or less by remarks suggested 
 by her husband, or by the thoughts which occurred to herself as 
 she wrote. 
 
 It may be as well to mention here, that Alexandrine was the 
 daughter of a German mother and a Swedish father, f and never 
 lived in France before her marriage. This fact will account for 
 
 * M. de Montalemb&rt was then about to meet Messieurs de Lamennais and 
 Lacordaire, in order to submit co the Holy See certain opinions advocated in 
 the Avenir. 
 
 t Count d'Alopeus, Eussian Minister at Berlin, and Jeanne de Wenkstern, 
 who afterwards married Prince Paul Lapoukhyn, Alexandrine's godfather 
 being the Emperor Alexander, she was immersed at baptism according to the 
 rite of the Greek Church. It was in consequence not considered necessary 
 to give her conditional baptism when she was received into the Church. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 11 
 
 her having been brought up in habits of greater independence than 
 is allowed to French girls. If the expediency of previous ac- 
 quaintance and the existence of mutual affection before marriage 
 could . be decided by the strength of a single instance, I cannot 
 but think that the story of Albert and Alexandrine would throw 
 a preponderating weight in the scale of that side of the question ; 
 and that a marriage such as theirs, preceded by a love as noble 
 as it was pure, is of all others the most likely to create a tender 
 and lasting union, cLcing in the more sacred and indissoluble ties 
 of an eternal home. 
 
 ALEXANDRINE'S STORY. 
 
 * On one particular Friday (sacred to the Guardian Angels), while 
 I was still in deep mourning for my father, at Eome, in 1832, I 
 saw Albert for the first time. He came to pay a visit to my 
 mother. I was in another apartment engaged in conversation 
 with a friend who lodged in the same house with us (Casa Mar- 
 gherita). I did not go up to our salon for some time, though I 
 had been told that Pauline de la Ferronnays' brother was there. 
 I had a great wish to know him, however, and fancied we had 
 seen him at Church the evening before. At last I went into 
 our drawing-room and met him with indifference. He did not 
 strike me as handsome, though I liked the expression of his eyes, 
 and he left me altogether with rather a pleasant impression. I 
 heard from him since that he fell in love with me that first day, 
 and had told his friends how much I had captivated him ; but 
 they had made a joke of it, and he never mentioned me to them 
 again. 
 
 ' February 5th. — I went with my young friend, Mary M , 
 
 to hear the nuns sing at the Trinita da Monte. There I saw M. 
 de la Ferronnays (as I called Albert in those days), on his knees. 
 Something about him interested me in a way I could not account 
 for ; and I must have felt some confidence in him, for, finding 
 myself near him as we went out of the Church, 1 said I should 
 have liked to kneel down as he had done, and that if his sisters 
 had been there I should have done so. " Then why not have done 
 it now?" he replied. "Why give way to human respect?" 
 This straightforward way of speaking in a young man of twenty 
 pleased me. No one before had made me that sort of sensible 
 answer. As he was going down the steps of the Trinita with 
 us, I looked more attentively at his face and countenance. I 
 wanted him to come to us in the evening, and he did so. 
 
 ' February 9th. — I had been spitting blood a little. My throat 
 was still weak in consequence of an illness I had at Berlin. I 
 
12 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 saw that Albert was very uneasy about me, and I began to feel 
 rather shy with him. He came to us oftener, and M. Rio also. 
 By degrees I summoned up courage to sing to them. They were 
 both absurdly pleased — especially with " Moeris." This song 
 pleased them all three, for it was not long before M de Monta- 
 lembert began to like it as much as the others did. I sang with 
 Albert, and liked his deep, sweet, full-toned bass voice, which 
 somehow or other went to my heart, though at that time I did 
 not yet think I cared for him, and indeed I did not. But I 
 found, nevertheless, great pleasure in singing with him. He 
 used to laugh at his own singing, and thought very little of it ; 
 but when did he ever think much of anything he did ? Still he 
 always sang when I asked him, without making any stupid fuss 
 about it. 
 
 ' February 24th. — Albert and I, with my mother and M. Rio, 
 took a walk this day, which I shall never forget. We went first 
 to the Villa Mattel, and then to the Villa Pamphili. 1 was very 
 much pleased with the conversation I had with Albert at the 
 Villa Mattel, and when we got to the Pamphili we fell back a 
 little to talk together without being heard. There is a great 
 sympathy in our views and our tastes, and under those grand 
 pines, and looking at that wonderful view, we spoke quite freely 
 of religion, of eternity, and of the sweetness that might attend 
 death itself amidst scenes such as those we were then gazing 
 on. This conversation, so unlike the frivolous talk which wearied 
 me in ordinary society, sank deeply in my heart. 
 
 ']\Iarch 1st. — In the midst of the Carnival follies with which 
 the Corso was then filled, Albert threw me one day an enormous 
 bunch of violets. This gave me great pleasure, and renewed 
 my enjoyment of the Corso. Albert was so clever in throwing 
 bouquets, and catching everything I threw in return. .Mamma 
 plaited a watch chain for him, which I threw him one day tied 
 round a nosegay. 
 
 ' Shrove Tuesday. — M. de Montalembert came to us this 
 evening, which he had seldom done during his stay in Rome. 
 Albert told me he was very jealous of him ; his excessive modesty 
 made him think everybody pleasanter than himself. For my part, 
 even at that time, I would rather have seen him come into the 
 room than either of his friends. 
 
 ' March 19th. — I went to a concert given by Princess Zenaide 
 Wolkonsky, which I enjoyed because Albert was there. I did 
 not know it, however, till he came to put us into the carriage. 
 As we were going downstairs he begged us to drive to the Coli- 
 seum, where he was going with some friends to see it by moon- 
 light. How I longed to go with him ! 
 
A SISTER'S STOBY. 18 
 
 ' March 31st. — Caticlie* came to wake ine early, and said that 
 M. Rio was come to beg me to write to Albert, who was very ill, 
 and wonld not see a doctor.^ I got up quite frightened, and with 
 Mamma's consent, I wrote a few hasty lines to Albert, entreating 
 him to be prudent, and to take care of himself for his family's sake, 
 and for ours. The next day he was worse, and M. Rio came in 
 the evening and gave me a little note from Albert, with an air of 
 mystery which put me a little out of countenance. However, 
 I took it from him and read it immediately, in order that my 
 mother might see it at once, though I would much rather have 
 had my note and the pleasure of it to myself. It contained these 
 words : "It is not a dream, then ! I have read your note a hun- 
 dred times since yesterday, and I shall read it again every day 
 after my morning prayers. You will find that I am obedient 
 now, for what I refused my best friends, I have done at a word 
 from you. How come you to have such influence over me ? Can 
 no one influence yotc on the one point which makes you now 
 so often sad and restless ? Let us at least unite in begging of 
 God the grace which brings happiness with it. It is very good 
 of you to pray for one so undeserving as I am, and I must ask 
 you to continue to do so, for indeed I need prayers. — Albert." 
 
 ' my God, Thou art witness that in these his first written 
 words to me, he spoke more of his desire for my conversion than 
 of his own love, and revealed the intensity of that greater desire 
 before he showed mq the strength of his affection. Reward him, 
 O my God, with Thy best blessing, for this singleness of heart, 
 or rather let the blessing fall on me, for I have more need of it 
 in Thy sight than he has now ! 
 
 'M. Rio left me rather embarrassed, and then M. de Monta- 
 lembert came to tell us that Albert was worse, and that he was 
 going to be bled. I suffered very much that evening. I felt 
 confused, and anxious about Albert ; but so touched that he had 
 written to me when he was so ill. And then I was a little 
 doubtful how my mother would take that allusion to religion. I 
 dreaded showing her the note, though delay made it only worse, 
 and the longer I put it off* the more difficult it seemed to be. I 
 was glad that I had to go out the next day as soon as I was up 
 to see Cardinal Fesch's gallery. But my mother expressed some 
 surprise that I had not yet shown her the note, and I went to 
 my room to fetch it ; bat, as I again felt great misgivings as to 
 the religious part of it, I tried to cut it out. In my hurry I ran 
 the scissors into my finger, and some drops of blood stained the 
 paper, which gave me a sad feeling of superstitious fear. I went 
 
 * A niece of Madame d'Alopeus, who lived with them. 
 
14 A SISTEB'S STORY. 
 
 out altogether upset, and could not enjoy a single picture in the 
 gallery. When I gave the note to my mother, I remember pray- 
 ing that she might be more struck with its beginning than the 
 end, which really did happen, for all she said was, that it was 
 rather too affectionate. 
 
 ' March 27th. — Albert came to see us quite well, and in such 
 spirits he could hardly contain himself. Neither have I forgotten 
 how he kissed my mother's hand and mine. I only found out 
 long afterwards that about that time he went out very early in the 
 morning, and barefooted, in the Roman pilgrim's garb, and made 
 the round of the Seven Churches to obtain my conversion.* 
 
 ' My room had a delightful view. On one side it looked on all 
 Rome and St. Peter's, which is rather below us. Above, on the 
 other side, stands the Trinita da Monte and its obelisk. A group 
 of rose trees under my window completed the charm of this pro- 
 spect. Albert often walked on the Pincio that he might see my 
 window, and sometimes complained that I was myself so seldom 
 to be seen there. 
 
 * April 5th. — A grand picnic at Princess Wolkonsky's. Albert 
 
 came to take me downstairs to Miss M , my English friend's 
 
 room, with whom I was to go. I think it was then, as we were 
 going down the stairs, that he said to me, " We are now like a 
 brother and sister." We all met at the Porta Maggiore, and the 
 fete was at Terra Nuova. Far away between the trees stretched 
 the mountain-line of Albano, touched with its own magical hues. 
 At dinner Albert sat by me, and his other neighbour was Louise 
 Vernet, who was so beautiful that I quite envied her. He was 
 rather attentive to her, but it did not make me at all jealous or 
 anxious. I was not then in love with him, though now I can 
 scarcely think there was ever a time when I did not care for him. 
 
 ' We played at all sorts of games, and then walked to look at 
 the view, and on one of the hills where we were all standing — I do 
 not exactly know how it came about — but he asked me to call 
 him my brother. I did so with great pleasure, and it made him 
 very happy. We did not get into the carriage again till it was 
 nearly dark. Albert was sitting opposite me, and, looking up 
 to the glorious starry sky, he said, " Let us for a moment both 
 thank God for the happiness you have given me to-day." I was 
 surprised, for until then, I had been accustomed only to the con- 
 versation of worldly people. But I liked this feeling in him, 
 
 * He also offered his life for the same intention. Alexandrine, herself, when 
 confirmed in the Lutheran Church at the age of fifteen, had made a solemn 
 offering of the happiness of life, that she might obtain in return a clear know- 
 ledge of Divine truth. 
 
A SISTEB'S STOBY. 15 
 
 and we raised our hearts together to God. Only I thought Albert 
 estimated mj friendship for him too highly. 
 
 ' I had been collecting for a long time all our visiting cards, 
 and pasting them into a book. Albert sometimes helped me. 
 Under" his own, he wrote — " It is like the sweet beginning of an 
 eternal existence, to live in the hearts of those who regret us." 
 They seemed to me strange and solemn words to write in an 
 
 album full of nonsense. A few days afterwards, M. de G , 
 
 while turning over the pages of this album, saw this card. He 
 read the words under it, and said to me, laughing, " That youth 
 is quite mad!" A long time afterwards, Albert tore out that 
 card (but I kept it), and stuck a blank one in its place. 
 
 ' About that time I began to think that even if Albert were 
 not Pauline's brother, I should like him very much ; but I still 
 maintained that what I felt for him was only friendship. 
 
 ' Wednesday in^ Holy week, April 18th. — I went with the 
 
 ]\I 's to hear the Miserere, in the Sixtine Chapel. Albert was 
 
 with us. Hiding behind Miss M , I knelt down, so that her 
 
 aunt — whose remarks I dreaded — could not see me, and it pleased 
 me to think that perhaps Albert would. 
 
 ' Thursday, April 19th. — I went again with the M s and 
 
 Albert to hear the beautiful Miserere, in the Choir Chapel at St. 
 Peter's. I felt so much more intimate with him than with my 
 friends, though I talked most to them. We saw many of the 
 ceremonies at St. Peter's that evening, so that we did not get 
 home till nine o'clock. Albert and I dined together on what 
 had been put aside for me. It so happened, that the pedantry 
 
 and severity of were talked of. He was quite surprised at 
 
 the impatient and irritable manner in which I spoke, and said 
 that his sister would make me gentle, she was so gentle herself. 
 I am always touched by the way in which he speaks of his sisters. 
 
 ' Whilst Albert's society pleased me every day more, that of my 
 English friends grew less and less agreeable to me. I went, how- 
 ever, to St. Peter's with them. M. de G gave me his arm 
 
 in the Church. I was vexed not to be taken care of by Albert, 
 especially in so sacred a place, and I thought that it annoyed him 
 also. As we were coming out of the Church, he told me how 
 painful it had been to him, and a long time afterwards, when 
 we had been married several months, he told me that he had 
 never forgotten that disagreeable feeling. That evening, on the 
 steps of St. Peter's, in the lovely twilight which was shedding its 
 soft beauty on all that glorious scene, he said to me : " Even in 
 friendship there is jealousy." It was on those same steps of St. 
 Peter's, on the next or the previous day — I am not certain which 
 — that he said to me : " Oh, I am very happy, for I have been to 
 
16 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 Communion this morning, and I love you ! " This startled me 
 a little, though it was said as if he meant only that brotherly 
 love of which he was always talking. 
 
 'April 25th. — On that day we set out for Naples. Albert had 
 started two days before. Though I was sorry to leave some of 
 our friends at Rome, I felt great joy at the idea that I was going 
 to live with Albert's sisters and near him. That charming road — 
 especially beyond Terracina — was scented with orange blossoms. 
 The weather was beautiful, and the glorious approach to Naples, 
 which delights the most indifferent eyes, has always filled me 
 with ecstacy. 
 
 * We drove to the Casa Paretti, on the Chiaja, and before the 
 carriage stopped, I saw Albert close to the door, which made me 
 very joyful. He looked beaming, and came up stairs with us, and 
 then went to fetch Pauline, Avith whom he soon afterwards re- 
 turned. That evening I wrote in my journal : "I thank thee, 
 
 my God ! I am at Naples, and I have seen Pauline de la Fer- 
 ronnays again." 
 
 ' The next day I saw all the family. Eugenie, whom I had left 
 a girl of thirteen, is very handsome now. Every day we took 
 long rambles together, and then they all went and established 
 themselves at the Vomero, in the charming Villa Trecase, and 
 after much hesitation my mother engaged a villa close to theirs, 
 for the remainder of the summer. It was not a pretty house, 
 and the garden was rather gloomy, for the magnificent view 
 from the crest of the Vomero was only visible from the terrace 
 which formed the roof of the house. But we spent such happy 
 days there, that we ended by thinking it charming, and have 
 always looked back to it vdth the same feeling. 
 
 ' May 9th. — Spent some delicious hours with Pauline, on the 
 terrace of the Villa Trecase. The day was perfect, and we looked 
 upon a view which has no parallel on earth. Albert had gone 
 to Amalfi with M. de Montalembert and M. Rio, who had just 
 arrived. Pauline had found a little book, in which Albert wrote 
 some of his own thoughts, as well as extracts from books. She 
 brought it, and read what follows : " A day like the one which is 
 just ended fills my heart with gratitude to God. Pauline and I 
 spent some moments together, and I felt that the most complete 
 sympathy existed between us. I had never before so thoroughly 
 realised the sweetness of the tie between a brother and sister. 
 
 1 understood exactly what she felt, by what I felt myself. Why, 
 then, did I sigh ? Why do I crave after something more ? " 
 
 ' " I begin to see that friendship is in a certain sense more 
 selfish, more exacting than that other kind of affection which 
 makes us forget ourselves, and think of nothing but the 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 17 
 
 object of our love. Under the influence of this last mentioned 
 feeling, we are capable of making the most incredible sacrifice ; 
 that of life, if it were called for ... . 
 
 ' " I felt when I liad left Pauline, that what seemed almost to 
 satisfy my heart had done nothing but prepare the way for stronger 
 emotions. But the end of that day did not correspond with the 
 
 beginning I saw her, however, and was happy. But 
 
 when I went away I was sad, and she seemed so cheerful." 
 
 ' Under this passage the following verses of Tasso were written 
 and underlined : 
 
 Brama assai — poco spera — nulla chiede 
 
 Ne sa scopirsi o no ardisce : ed ella 
 
 lo sjprezza, o nol vede, o non s' accorde. 
 
 Cosi finora, il misero ha servito 
 
 non visto — o mal noto, o mal gradito.* 
 
 * St. Augustine's exclamation, " Everything that ends is so 
 short," is also written a little further on, and repeated four times. 
 Pauline, who was thus letting me into the secrets of her brother's 
 heart, thought she was making up for her indiscretion by not 
 allowing me to have the book in my own hands. But I got hold 
 of it, and found fastened to one of the pages the little nosegay, 
 tied with a red ribbon, that I had thrown to Albert in the Corso, 
 at Rome. Alas ! it is lying there before me. Poor nosegay ! it 
 still remains where he placed it. 
 
 ' On the same page there were also some verses of Victor 
 Hugo's ; this one, which was underlined, struck me : 
 
 Je m'en irai bientot au milieu de la Fete. * 
 
 And further on, " We fear death less when we are not afraid of 
 what will follow death." — Massillon. And again, "I die young, 
 and this is what I always wished. I die young, and yet I seem 
 to have jRved a long time. I would not disturb the peace of her 
 sleep or of her heart. No, no ; I only ask for a few tears, and 
 one of those remembrances that last as long as life, bat do not 
 embitter it." 
 
 'Besides these sentences, he had written — " A terrible fit of 
 s]jleen. I feel as if I lived through centuries instead of days. 
 
 * Sophronia, she, Olindo hight the youth, 
 
 ^Both of one town, both in one faith were taught ; 
 Ste fair; he full of bashfulness and truth. 
 
 Loved much, hoped little, and desired nought. 
 He dared not speak by suit to purchase ruth ; 
 
 She saw not, marked not, wist not, what he sought. 
 Thus loved, thus served he long but not regarded, 
 Unseen, unmarked, unpitied, unrewarded. — Wriyhfs Tasso. 
 t I shall soon depart, in the midst of the festival. 
 C 
 
18 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 Nothing rouses me, not even tlie thought of her. I feel like a 
 dead person, though I breathe and walk about. What is this 
 deadly languor that sometimes makes me imagine I am no 
 longer susceptible of any passion, nor even of any strong excite- 
 ment, and which makes me envy commonplace people, because 
 they seem to attach importance to the most trifling things." 
 
 ' On the following page I found these words : — " Rome, March 
 30th, 1832. — Ah ! my dear father, people are called romantic by 
 men of the world, when they choose to live only for what makes 
 life honourable; and enthusiasm, according to their notions, is 
 only a dangerous kind of fever. Fools ! they dare not seek hap- 
 piness from God. They ask only for the pleasures of the world, 
 and end by being rejected both by God and the world." 
 
 ' He had written on the 5th of April, 1832 :— " Walked in the 
 
 Campagna with ." It was the day I had called him brother ^ 
 
 and he had added : " There is something so pure and sweet in 
 the name of sister, that it seems to sanction the feeling, tender 
 beyond that of friendship, which takes shelter beneath it. Every- 
 thing strengthens her increasing affection for me ; everything 
 feeds my passion for her. But to her the world remains un- 
 altered, whilst for me everything is changed.'' 
 
 ' " A Portrait,'' is written in very small letters, followed by 
 these sentences : — 
 
 ' " She possesses everything combined which inspires strong 
 passion ; . grace, timidity, modesty, and one of those souls whose 
 life is love ; a mind enthusiastically devoted to everything good ; 
 a delicate frame, a disposition to lean on others, but a spirit so 
 courageous and generous, that it would face death for virtue's 
 sake." 
 
 ' There was not a passage in which, directly or indirectly, I 
 did not find something that had reference to myself. The last 
 one I read was this : 
 
 ' " Vomero, May 3rd, 1832. — It gives me a particular pleasure 
 to find, in prose or in verse, anything that expresses my own 
 feelings, for lately I have been quite unable to do so myself. I 
 am in such a disturbed and anxious state, that I cannot fix in my 
 mind any of the numerous thoughts which come into it. Wishes, 
 anxiety, regret, joy, are all mixed together in a confused manner, 
 and agitate me so much, that I am afraid of going out of my 
 mind." 
 
 ' Oh, what great pleasure this little book gave me ! I did not 
 disguise it from Pauline. I went away much happier than I had 
 come, and I thought the view, and the matchless blue sea and 
 sky, more lovely than ever. I felt a great interior delight in the 
 sense of existence, and in being where I was, and yet if any one 
 
A SISTEB'S STORY. 19 
 
 had asked me if I was happy, I should perhaps have said no. I 
 did not yet acknowledge it to myself, but I felt as if the dawn of 
 a glorious day was about to break upon me. 
 
 ' Long afterwards I read what Albert was writing at that Yerj 
 time in his journal at Amalfi : 
 
 * " What blasphemy it is to say that we are doomed by God to 
 nothing but misery in this world. Who most certainly created 
 man to be happy ; and how can such an absurd idea enter the 
 minds of those who love Him ? How ungrateful it is, also ; and 
 how often have I myself sinned in this way. Oh, thou whom I 
 name only in the secret of my heart, I see thee everywhere, and 
 I behold God, as it were, through thee ! 
 
 ' " Amalfi, the 11th of May. — How I should have liked to spend 
 many days here, at the foot of these magnificent mountains. I 
 admired their immeasurable height, and wondered that I could 
 still soar above them, and rising higher than their golden sum- 
 mits, find them little, compared with my own thoughts, for my 
 enraptured heart was entirely filled with the Presence of God. 
 
 ' " Those enchanting scenes seemed to me made on purpose for 
 her and myself. Oh, delusive visions, doomed to premature 
 destruction ! To-morrow I return to Naples, and when I see her 
 again, my happiness and dreams will vanish like smoke. I shall 
 see her gentle, charming as ever, and treating me as a friend and 
 a brother ; but as to a mutual understanding, without the aid of 
 speech, or a union of hearts felt and not expressed ; these are 
 blessings I cannot hope for. And when tremblingly I address 
 her in a few agitated words, her indifferent manner will freeze 
 me at once, and tell me that I have been cheating myself with 
 vain fancies." 
 
 ' A few days after their return from Amalfi, Albert's two friends 
 left him, and on the 18th of May he wrote the following letter to 
 M. de Montalembert, who had gone to join M. de Lamennais at 
 Rome : 
 
 * " My Dear Friend, — How I long to hear of you or from you. 
 I cannot say how sorry I was not to go with you, for I am now 
 so used to your society, that I do not feel able to do without it. 
 There is a remarkable sympathy between us. We understand 
 one another perfectly, and love one another dearly ; your man- 
 ner to me is never cold or sneering. Since you went, I feel to 
 want you so much, for my unfortunate attachment is increasing 
 terribly. Yes, my dear friend, I did not knoAv how much I loved 
 her. What can I do ? Perhaps I ought to go away, but even if 
 it was not for other reasons impossible, I do not think I could 
 bring myself to do so. My life is here. But write and say you 
 
 c2 
 
20 A SISTER'S STOBY. 
 
 understand me ; that you do not think me quite mad. I have 
 just made a resolution, but I do not know if I shall have courage 
 to keep it. I will not see her for a few days. I shall perhaps 
 find out that the affection which appears to me so deeply rooted 
 in my heart, has only slightly touched it. And now I am really 
 afraid that you will think me childish and absurd. You will 
 laugh, I am afraid, at what may very well appear ridiculous, but 
 which nevertheless makes me suffer. Farewell. I am feverish 
 and miserable. I cannot describe how much I miss you. Grive 
 m.e some hope of seeing you soon again, for I really want yon. I 
 leave my letter open that I may tell you if I have had the courage 
 to do what I intended. Do not laugh at me, for I am unhappy." 
 
 * On the 26th of May, he writes again to M. de Montalem- 
 berfc : 
 
 ' " I have received your welcome letter.* It has done me more 
 good than I can describe. "Write to me often. Give me strength 
 and courage. If you were with me, how many thoughtless acts 
 you would save me from committing. Oh, if she could know 
 what I feel when she speaks, when she sings. She is so charm- 
 ing ! That shyness, that fragile look, those childlike manners, 
 that apparent helplessness, at the same time that passionate 
 ardour for everything good, and so great a leaning to our religion, 
 that I regret you had not time to become better acquainted with 
 her. 
 
 ' " I really feel this is insanity, but when a man is in love, hope 
 dies in his heart only when love itself decays. After all, I have 
 obtained what I have always prayed for — to love as ardently and 
 
 * This was the letter he speaks of : 
 
 M. LE COMTE DE MONTALEMBEKT TO ALBERT. 
 
 Albano : May l&th, 1832. 
 
 My Dear Friend, — You cannot imagine how I have suffered during the last 
 two days at the total overthrow of all our plans. I see that the whole of 
 my journey — supposing I do not give it up— will be spoilt by it. I wanted to 
 write to you at length on this subject, and to give you some idea of the emo- 
 tions which swell my heart to bursting. But there is no time for it ; the courier 
 is just, starting. I can only tell you, and over and over again repeat it, that my 
 affection for you is as strong as possible. I did not think I could have attached 
 myself so warmly to a new friend. I hope that you will not forget me, and 
 that under the seductive sky of Naples, you will not lose those strong religious 
 and political convictions which, to my groat joy, I saw increasing in your mind. 
 Good-bye. I will write to you more amply from Eome and Frascati. I repeat 
 my old injunctions. Take care of yourself and of your health, for the sake of 
 your family, of your sisters, of one whose happiness will one day be in your 
 keeping, and also a little out of regard for me, who have already lost so many 
 of those I loved. A thousand affectionate remembrances to Alexandrine and 
 her mother. Chaeles de Moxtalkmbert. 
 
A SISTEB'S STOBY. 21 
 
 devotedly as it is possible to love, even if that love was never to 
 meet with the least return. Hitherto I have been able to repress 
 all outward expression of what I feel, but I am sure that if I- 
 were alone with her, I never could help telHng her everything, 
 even at the risk of foregoing all my hopes." 
 
 ' A few days after this letter was written, I had been to see 
 Pauline, on a Sunday, the 3rd of June, and had been with her a 
 long time in the garden. Madame de la Ferronnays called her 
 daughters to go to Benediction. I walked with them, and 
 Albert joined us. The church was half way between their villa 
 and ours. As I was obliged to go home, I took leave of them 
 at the church door, and went on, accompanied by Albert. In the 
 little lane which begins at the Villa Belvidera, and before arriv- 
 ing at the Floridiana, Albert, after a long silence, said to me : 
 
 ' " I am desperately in love with you ! " 
 
 * This was the way in which he first told me of his love, 
 whilst his mother and sisters were praying at church, and per- 
 haps praying for us. 
 
 ' Albert wrote in his journal the following day : 
 ' " June 4th, 1832. — How this state of tepidity fatigues and 
 irritates me. The heart longs to feel those emotions which it 
 can so seldom enjoy, and it does not know how to overcome the 
 secret obstacle which stands in their way. For some time past I 
 have lost all those delightful feelings which the love of God, and 
 nothing but that love, used to give me. I should like to be alone 
 for some days. I feel that my soul requires to be strengthened. 
 I really think that habits are more powerful than principles. At 
 Rome I was certainly a better man than here. I took so much 
 pleasure in fulfilling all my duties. I used to feel such devotion 
 when I entered a church, and such a living faith filled my soul. 
 Now everything in me seems weakened. And what a difference, 
 too, in my love ! Then I should never have dreamt of doing 
 what I did yesterday. I found happiness then in silently admir- 
 ing her. It was an enjoyment to study her soul, and a pure, 
 unselfish, delightful feeling filled my heart with enthusiastic de- 
 votion. Why did I disclose my love to her ? Has the nature of 
 it changed? Why did I want her to read my heart? How 
 could I act such an insane part in my own interest, as to cease 
 to look upon her as on a paradise never to be obtained ? I am 
 ashamed of myself. How she must have despised me, and how 
 surprised she must have been ! " 
 'The 5th of June:* 
 
 * On the same day M. de Montalembert wrote from Rome to Albert : 
 
 I can never tell you enough how grateful I feel for your confidence, and 
 
A SISTEB'S STORY. 
 
 ' *' It is in vain to try to school myself. I cannot succeed when 
 I speak to her, or when she shakes hands with me; I altogether 
 forget what I am doing. I am afraid that there must be ex- 
 aggeration in these feelings, and that they cannot prove lasting ; 
 and yet I do think I never saw anybody in the world to be com- 
 pared with her, unless, perhaps, my sister Pauline. But Pauline 
 is if anything a little too reasonable. It is perhaps wrong to say 
 so. But what I find so captivating in Alexandrine is precisely 
 her nawete ; and that she is a little unreasonable, a little ex- 
 aggerated sometimes, but so charming. She really wants a 
 friend — a protector — she is so delicate. What a picture I am 
 drawing ! and what a fool I am ! " 
 
 ' " June 6th. — Give me back, I beseech Thee, my God, the 
 fervour I have lost. It is such happiness when one can pray 
 well, and that is the happiness which I have lost. All the vague 
 and impetuous feelings of youth find something in religion which 
 calms and satisfies the soul. O, my God ! I have forgotten that 
 language of the soul which those only understand who love none 
 but Thee — that language which is only used in a church or in 
 solitude. It was familiar to me once, and I thought it so sweet. 
 Grant me, my God, to speak it again, as in those happy days 
 which now seem to me so far distant, when I was going every 
 moment into a church to pray for her, and felt as if I must be 
 heard. 0, my God, when I asked for her conversion, offering in 
 exchange my own life and all my happiness, was the joy of loving 
 Thee included in the sacrifice ? Save her, my God ! save her : 
 but save me also. Take away from me, if it be Thy will, every 
 enjoyment which enthusiasm can give, but leave me the love of 
 holiness ; let me never lose it again." 
 
 ' The 8th of June, 1832 : 
 
 ' " There was a time when the words ' our country ' used to set 
 the hearts of men on fire ; but now that the coldest selfishness, 
 as a general rule, prevails in the world, we find our true country 
 wherever we can feel and practise what is good and great ; and 
 our fellow citizens are those who understand and desire to lead 
 this sort of life." 
 
 ' On the same day Albert wrote to M. de Montalembert : 
 
 for the proofs of it which your last letters afford. If it was a comfort to you to 
 open your heart to me, and to speak of your sufferings, it was a real satisfac- 
 tion to read what you wrote to me. Only do not make so many apologies — do 
 not keep on repeating that I shall think you insane. Speak to me always with 
 openness and simplicity, and be sure that I can both understand and feel for 
 your sorrows. You know how particularly well I uifderstand you, and nobody, 
 I think, can better estimate the character of your present attachment. I can 
 only regret that it should not have been Grod's will that our intended journey 
 should take place. I think it would have done us both good. — Ch. de M. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBY. 23 
 
 ' " I hardly dare speak of myself. Yet I greatly need it. My 
 dear Charles, do try and animate me again with that ardent love of 
 goodness which I used to feel when I was with you. I now fulfil 
 my religious duties with much less pleasure. I cannot account 
 for the change, and am inclined to ascribe it to the air of Naples. 
 I have been haunted lately by horrible recollections, and I am 
 afraid of the future. But there is comfort in thinking that an 
 angel is watching near me. Oh, no, I need not fear as long as I can 
 gaze on that pure and lovely vision. Why, then, has my soul 
 lost its poetic fervour ? Does God sometimes withdraw His grace 
 in order to try us ? I am inclined to think so, for yesterday 
 evening when I came into the drawing room I found my sister 
 Pauline in tears. We went on the terrace, where the moonlight 
 was most beautiful. She soon recovered her accustomed cheer- 
 fulness, and assured me that the depression I experience is only 
 a transient feeling, and even whilst she was speaking to me the 
 fervour that doubles the value of hfe seemed to return. She 
 talked to me of Alexandrine. I was quite happy then. I told 
 her that I had been suffering for some time past, and after having 
 spent an hour conversing together, we returned to the house 
 quite cheered and comforted." 
 
 * Again a few days later : 
 
 * " My dearest Friend, — I received your delightful letter this 
 morning, and had I not been breakfasting out, I should have an- 
 swered it immediately. I wish you knew all the good you have 
 done me. I thank you a thousand times for your confidence, which 
 touches me all the more because I have no right to it but that 
 which my devoted affection for you can give, whereas it is only 
 natural that I should conceal nothing from you who are so very, 
 very good, so necessary to me, and to whom I owe such pure, 
 such inexpressible enjoyment. I wish I could show you my in- 
 nermost soul. I am so indifferent now to all I cared about when 
 I was with you. I do not know why this should be, for I love 
 her. But I see her before me like some luminous object on the 
 horizon which it is impossible to reach, but from which one cannot 
 detach one's eyes because it is so beautiful, and that it appears 
 linked with one's fate. You will not, I am afraid, understand 
 me. What I feel is almost as confused as what I write. There 
 is no doubt of one thing, which is, that I love her." 
 
 • " Thursday morning, 4 o'clock. 
 
 * " I have been studying all night. I could not sleep, and I 
 wanted to kill the time, and to drive away the thought of Alex- 
 andrine. I want to learn to study. This is one of those moments 
 in which we feel that lost time can be redeemed. If you will help 
 
24 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 me, I will work as liard as I can. If you will guide me, no 
 amount of labour shall frighten me. There is nothing I will not 
 attempt. I must have occupation to keep me from going out of 
 my mind. I am so in love ! " "I am not very well. I have 
 not slept for two nights, and last night I did not even go to bed. 
 The weather was perfectly beautiful, and I sat at my windoAV 
 studying till five o'clock in the morning. Dear friend, when shall 
 we enjoy again our pleasant merry days of Amalfi ? " 
 
 * It was during one of those sleepless nights that Albert wrote 
 me the following note : 
 
 * " "Wednesday, 2 o'clock in the morning. 
 
 * " What will you say when you see my handwriting ? I know 
 I ought not to write to you, and that you have reason to be dis- 
 pleased. But all I can say is, that you have revealed to me the 
 knowledge that I possess a living heart. You have filled me with 
 enthusiasm for everything great, and inspired me with a fervent 
 admiration for goodness. But when I am with you, I find I can- 
 not express my thoughts. I believe I am afraid of you ; and yet 
 you were so kind to-night. You tried to make me happy. Do 
 not think me too presumptuous. Keep for those more worthy of 
 them those light words which yoa utter without thought. Let 
 me enjoy in silence the happiness of seeing you, and draw from 
 your soul the life of mine. If I could only be with you for a 
 few minutes, what good it would do me. Here they laugh at 
 what they call my absence of mind, but I assure you that I am 
 not happy. I reproach myself for daring to love you, and still 
 more for having told you so ; but I was carried away by a resist- 
 less impulse. Do tell me you forgive me. I have been on the 
 point of going to Amalfi for a fortnight, not to try and forget you, 
 for I should have neither the strength nor the will to do so, but 
 only to relieve you a little from my presence. But I remembered 
 that on Friday there would be nobody to take care of you when 
 
 you came out of the theatre. I do not know Madame K , but 
 
 I shall be standing at the door in case you should want any one ; 
 only let me know if you raean to stay till the end. 
 
 '"I have said scarcely anything, and am still afraid I may have 
 displeased you. Be a little indulgent. I am alone ; it is a beau- 
 tiful night, and you are so present to me that I cannot sleep. 
 
 ' " I declare to you that when we are together it seems to me 
 like the foretaste of a happier life. It is impossible that such feel- 
 ings as these should not outlive the grave. No, I am sure that 
 one ca.nnot love deeply, purely, innocently — that one cannot love 
 you — without being tilled with thoughts of God and Eternity. 
 
 ' " And now I must leave you. I can ill express what I feel. 
 
A SISTEB'S STORY. 25 
 
 You may call it follj, delusion, delirium, if you will, but I fancy 
 I hear tlie singing of Angels. You are amongst them, and oh, 
 how lovely you are ! " 
 
 * He had written on the cover : 
 
 ' ^^ For you. Do not he angry. ''^ 
 
 'And he gave me this letter with several other things he 
 brought with him. 
 
 ' On the Friday of which he speaks, I was to dine at Naples 
 
 with the Countess K , and to go with her to hear " Anna 
 
 Bolena." My mother did not like to appear yet at the opera. For 
 the first time since my father's death I put on a white gown. I 
 had not been to a theatre for two years. The opera house was 
 illuminated in honour of the queen-mother, and I wrote that night 
 in my journal : 
 
 ' " This day has seemed to me like a long dream." 
 
 ' Ivanhoff 's charming voice in the part of Percy, that magnifi- 
 cent theatre brilliantly lighted, the joy of loving and being loved, 
 all combined to make that evening one of perfect enchantment 
 to me. Count Sebzeltern* came to fetch me to his box, which he 
 had lent to Madame de la Ferronnays. I thought myself in good 
 looks, and was glad that Albert should see me, and Pauline too, 
 that she might compliment me on my dress. It was one o'clock 
 before I got back to my mother, who was waiting for me at the 
 Comtesse de Maistre's. Little did I think, as we were driving 
 back to the Vomero, and I was lying back in the carriage, tired, 
 indeed, but happy, and delighted with my evening, that Albert 
 was walking by our side on the rough road up to the Vomero, 
 pushing the carriage wheels up the steep places, and hiding him- 
 self when our servant got down from the box, and all for the sake 
 of catching one more glimpse of my white gown in our courtyard, 
 where he ensconced himself to see us get out of the carriage, very 
 much afraid all the time of being himself seen. 
 
 ' It hurt his chest very much. He acknowledged it to Paul' 
 ine, who told me so afterwards. 
 
 ' The next day, Saturday, he wrote me the following note : 
 
 ' " Whether you read this letter or not, I must talk to you a 
 little. It is a happiness I can never enjoy when I go to see you, 
 and if jow. do not allow me to write, I shall be undone. Even at 
 the time when I had most religious fervour, there was still some- 
 thing imperfect in my devotion. I was not good enough to pray 
 without any other thought but God ; and on Sundays at Rome 
 when I was near you, I felt that your prayers helped me. I wish 
 
 * Austrian Minister at Naples. 
 
26 A SISTEB'S STORY. 
 
 you could have read my heart, and seen how my love for you 
 made me love God, and filled me with enthusiasm. I love you 
 intensely, and you did not know it. There was something I 
 liked in this secret attachment. Here I have been less good and 
 less happy. I seem to have forfeited everything by disclosing 
 my affection to you. I thought — no, I did not think at all — I 
 did not know what I was doing. I have lost that peace and 
 tranquillity I used to have. 
 
 ' " You accuse me of exaggeration. My words may sound like 
 it, but if you could see my heart, you would find in it something 
 more real than I can describe. I do not know how to express 
 myself. Do not attend to what I say, but understand what I 
 mean. What will you say when you read this letter ? Perhaps 
 you will only laugh. Well, laugh if you like. I am a child, a 
 fool perhaps, but I am not absurd, for I love you. Adieu. Above 
 all things I want you to be happy. It is three o'clock. I am not 
 the least inclined to sleep. Why should I sleep, when my waking 
 dreams are so delightful ! " 
 
 ' I have not yet mentioned that my mother was very fond of 
 Albert ; " as fond of him as of a son," she used to say, and also 
 that " Heaven was in his eyes." One evening that we had been 
 saying good-bye to him from the balcony, he walked down the 
 avenue, humming a ballad by the Due (afterwards Cardinal) de 
 Rohan, which he had sung to me for the first time a few days 
 before ; 
 
 Ton souvenir est toiijours la, 
 
 Oh ! toi qui ne peut plus m'entendre ! * 
 
 * I remember that a shade of sadness stole over my soul as I 
 heard his voice dying away in the distance. Alas ! four years 
 afterwards when at my request Fernand sang to me that same 
 ballad at Boury, with what bitter sobs I heard it once more ! 
 ****** 
 
 ' Albert began to reproach himself for not having positively 
 acknowledged to my mother that he was attached to me. He 
 delayed it from the fear of meeting with a repulse. I was a little 
 afraid of this also. On the first of August, 1832, he wrote to M. 
 de Montalembert on this subject : 
 
 ' " I left Castellamare at five o'clock, and at eight I was at 
 the Yomero. I dressed, stayed a little while at home, and then 
 hastened to Alexandrine. My heart was beating very fast. I 
 found her alone. Her mother was on the terrace with Prince 
 L .f I was a few minutes alone with her, and could not say 
 
 * Ever present to me is the thought of you, who can no longer hear me. 
 
 t The Countess d'Alopeus had been at that time a widow for more than a 
 year. Prince Lapoukhyn had travelled to Italy to offer her his hand, and she 
 married him the following year. 
 
A SISTEE'8 STORY. 27 
 
 one word. She gave me her hand. I saw by the expression of 
 her eyes that she knew what I was feeling. My silence said more 
 than all I could have uttered. I stayed there till twelve o'clock, 
 quite wild with joy, for I am sure she loves me a little. 
 
 ' " Dear friend, how will all this end ? Shall 1 ever be able to 
 exist without her ? I pass from the most enchanting dreams to 
 the most terrible misgivings. Her mother's kindness to me seems 
 to increase every day, and I feel almost a filial affection for her. 
 Yesterday Alexandrine was playing on the pianoforte. Madame 
 d'Alopeus was at the window admiring the beauty of the night. 
 1 went up to her and said, ' I am haunted by the fear of appear- 
 ing deceitful.' ' You ! ' she answered ; ' with those large eyes 
 of yours it would be difficult to deceive, and I read into the very 
 depths of your heart.' I was very much affected, and begged 
 her to tell me what it was she saw there. 'Oh! not yet,' she 
 said ; ' these sort of things cannot be talked about in an off hand 
 manner. Another time we will speak of it.' 
 
 ' " 1 must tell you about Prince L . He is a striking look- 
 ing man, with a frank, honest countenance. He is immensely 
 rich, and would, I think, be very glad to marry Madame d'Alo- 
 peus. I must tell you what he said the other day, but promise 
 me you will not say a word to anybody. Madame d'Alopeus was 
 playing at patience, and in her way telling fortunes with the cards. 
 The word ' Fian^ailles ' (Betrothal) turned up. The Prince said, 
 ' ! that does not mean my betrothal ; it relates to another mar- 
 riage I have in view,' and he looked towards us. Moreover, I 
 know he said to the countess: 'Albert is in love with your 
 daughter, and why not ? ' " 
 
 ' Oh, how well I remember the day he describes at the beginning 
 of this letter. Pauline had been sitting for a long time with me 
 in my room, till it grew quite dark. Then she went away, and 
 I returned to the drawing-room. I had a vague hope of finding 
 Albert there, but he was not come. It was ten o'clock, and I 
 would not give up hoping. Mamma proposed to the Prince to go 
 out on the terrace. I let them go on before me, and delayed fol- 
 lowing them, for I kept thinking, " He will perhaps arrive in a 
 minute," and so he did. I was so happy to see him that I could 
 not speak. I was the first, however, to break that long silence, 
 which told more than I felt I could venture to say. All that 
 evening was so full of happiness. 0, God of boundless love ! is 
 not this pure bliss, this ecstatic joy, this love which sees nothing 
 but perfection in the object of its love, a foretaste of the endless 
 affection which we shall feel for those already so immensely dear 
 to us on earth ? 
 
 ' Our hfe was becoming every day more enjoyable. Albert, 
 
28 A SISTEB'S STORY. 
 
 once secure that his love was returned, began to show that attrac- 
 tive gaiety which Pauhne had told me was natural to him. Our 
 dull, ill-furnished house, which had not even a view except from 
 the terrace, seemed adorned with a bewitching brightness. We 
 liked it better than his parents' lovely villa, where it was not so 
 easy for us to talk together. What I liked were the walks home 
 from it. He used to accompany me, and sometimes we came back 
 by the avenue instead of the lane, which was the shortest road ; 
 but I did not do this very often, because I was afraid people 
 would take notice of it, and guess why I chose the longest way. 
 
 ' We spent the greatest part of our evenings on the terrace up- 
 stairs. How enchanting it was ! Those two bays, the lovely 
 coasts, Vesuvius with its rivulets of fire, the sky always spangled 
 with stars, the ever balmy air, and, to crown all, our love ! And 
 that a love we were not afraid to feel, even when we spake of 
 God! 
 
 ' I did not want Albert to be deceived about my character, even 
 if, in showing myself to him as I was, I lessened his attachment. 
 " He must either be cured of his love," I thought, " or if it stands 
 the test, I can trust him/o7' ever." I therefore gave him a certain 
 little green book, the earliest depository of all my thoughts. He 
 read it, and this is what he wrote immediately afterwards in his 
 journal : 
 
 ' " 6 o'clock in the morning. 
 
 "'I am in a perfect fever. I have passed the whole night 
 reading this little book, which has driven me almost wild. I 
 cannot attempt to describe the various feelings with which it has 
 filled my soul. Sadness when it speaks of her sufferings, an 
 overflowing tenderness, a tormenting jealousy, and above all a 
 passionate love ! A love which kills me . . . It is six o'clock, 
 and I have not gone to bed yet. I cannot sleep. I only want to 
 see her, to speak to her, to tell her all I suffer . . ." 
 
 ' And I was suffering too. I dreaded the effect the little book 
 might have upon him. Albert did not come early that evening, 
 which increased my anxiety. We were going to the opera to see 
 the " Gazza Ladra." I felt like a guilty person when he came 
 into the box. He looked gloomy and out of spirits. He asked 
 mo to allow him to give me a note, because he said he was going 
 the next day to Castellamare. He put it in the case of my opera- 
 glass. A thousand fears disturbed me. I scarcely knew what I was 
 about, and I must have derived less pleasure from the opera than 
 any of the audience, Madame Malibran was drawing tears from 
 every one, and certainly the music was in harmony with our feel- 
 ings ; but though I was very sorry to part with Albert for several 
 days, I was longing to get home to read his note. Perhaps it 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 29 
 
 contained a last farewell. I knew I should at once see when I 
 opened it if his love was diminished. At last alone in mj room I 
 read as follows : 
 
 ' " I shall not have an opportunity of speaking to you to-day, 
 and as I am going to Castellamare, I am sure you will forgive this 
 breach of our agreement. I did not go to bed till past six o'clock 
 this morning, for, as you may suppose, your little book took away 
 from me all inclination to sleep. I cannot tell you all the various 
 feelings which agitated me throughout the night. I grieved over 
 your suiFerings, your scruples, your tormenting misgivings about 
 your own character, till I worked myself into a perfect fever. 
 Oh, every page of your book added to my affection for you ! I 
 found myself several times reasoning with you, consoling you as 
 if you had been present. It seemed as if you were by my side 
 and speaking to me as to your dearest friend. I felt to love 
 you more than I have ever loved you before. The prayers yoa 
 address to God, your feelings of devotion when you enter our 
 churches, your dread of doing wrong, the sacrifice of your own 
 happiness, which you so often offer up for the sake of others — 
 yourself, in short—revealed to me by yourself! I assure you that 
 it was too much for my poor head, and I was obliged to throw 
 open the window and breathe the fresh morning air, for it was 
 broad daylight. How far off this evening still seems ! I am afraid 
 of seeing you. Shall I be able to control myself ? Oh, always 
 tell me what you think, what you do ! Speak to me of everything 
 that is good, and above all of yourself. Let me see your other book. 
 Make me your best and greatest friend. I know he was clever, 
 and I am not ; that he was pleasing, and that there is nothing 
 pleasing about me. But when he said, ' I love you,' tell me, did 
 he seem to feel it as I do ? "* 
 
 * On the morning of the 31st of August I gave Albert my 
 second book, having taken care to paste a sheet of paper over the 
 last pages, in which he w^as mentioned, and trusting to him not 
 to tear it off. Alas ! there were many foolish things in that book 
 which ought to have estranged him from me; but though I did 
 not wish it to have that effect, I was resolved to be honest, and, 
 as we can never quite answer for our motives, I will not be quite 
 sure that I did not like him to read some passages which I was 
 certain would please him. The agitation which the little green 
 
 * This alludes to an attachment which had been formed for Alexandrine the 
 preceding year at Berlin, and wliich at the time seemed sincere. She had not 
 been quite indifferent to it, and this gaA-e her misgivings as to the strength and 
 reality of her present feelings. For she, whom the sequel proved to be the 
 most constant, tender, and devoted person in the world, originally had, or 
 thought she had, the most changeable, uncertain disposition possible. 
 
30 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 book had caused him made me somewhat uneasy about the effect 
 of the blue one. 
 
 ' The day before, or the same day, he had written in his journal 
 the following sentences, and then the Memorare, that prayer to 
 the Blessed Virgin which we have since so often said together : 
 
 ' " O ! my God, do not forsake me ! Forgive me all my faults 
 and give me an energy which I have never yet possessed. Re- 
 store to me those fervent feelings of devotion which were wont 
 to fill my soul, and to be its safeguard against the enemy on the 
 watch to destroy me. I dread the coming winter. It will be so 
 different from the last. Oh, Mary, my Blessed Mother, pray for 
 me ; do not abandon me ! Give me courage to conquer human 
 respect, to make my enemies blush, not to give them occasion of 
 triumph. I am ashamed to say it, but I dread the sneers of 
 worldly people. I should like to act nobly and independently. 
 To be indulgent towards others, and severe towards myself. Not 
 to allow of any jests on my own line of conduct, but on the other 
 hand, not to set myself up as a judge. To go a good deal into 
 society, since I can do so without committing sin. To love 
 Alexandrine without giving way to folly, and compromising her 
 by childish absurdities ; and, above all, grant me, my God, to 
 love virtue. Give me back that warmth of zeal I used to feel for 
 everything good. Make my heart burn again with the fire of 
 Divine love. Purify more and more that passion which is now 
 the life of my soul. Give me, I beseech thee, self-control, and 
 never permit me, in the agitation of my feelings, to utter a single 
 word which could wound or offend her ears. Let me hold her in 
 the deepest reverence, and strive to become worthy of loving her 
 without ever aspiring to a greater happiness. ! my God, give 
 me tenderness of heart, zeal, enthusiasm and love." 
 
 ALBERT TO M. DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 '" 29th of July, 1832. 
 * " Each day seems fraught with danger. I see an abyss before 
 me. Dear friend, if you could know what I suffer ! And yet I 
 ought to be happy, for I am no longer indifferent to her. She 
 has read my heart, and has been touched by my affection. And 
 yet my depression increases ! Sometimes I think she cares for 
 me only out of gratitude, and I feel humbled. If for a moment 
 I indulge in some sweet illuvsionand believe myself truly loved, a 
 sort of anguish takes possession of me. She was so beautiful 
 that evening ! After having sung she came up to me and said : 
 ' Do not be sad ! ' ' How can I be otherwise ? ' I replied. 
 * Life is a burden to me. I can never be happy. Your kindness 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 31 
 
 only depresses me, for I know you cannot love me. Spare me 
 your pity. I should like better to be hated. It would not wound 
 me so deeply ; for I cannot tell you what I was suffering ;' and to 
 add to it, she answered : ' You do so exaggerate ! I know you 
 will forget. You will return to * * * .' Her way of saying 
 this cut me to the heart. I could not answer. ' Have I vexed 
 you ? ' she asked ; adding ' Well, no ; I believe you are in 
 earnest ; but you have so often changed, and then people always 
 forget me.' 
 
 ' " Oh, my dear Charles, I felt as if I should die. And when I 
 think I can never marry her because I have no fortune ! You 
 can imagine all I endure. I have got so into the habit of seeing 
 and being with her that it feels as if she belonged to me, as if 
 she could not be taken away from me ! When I hear her 
 praised, I am so proud, so happy ! She often speaks of you, and 
 in a way which I assure you might almost make me jealous. 
 When we meet I will tell you about it. I wish you knew how 
 much I love you, how much I miss you. I used to be unfortu- 
 nately open with everybody, and now you are the only person to 
 whom I speak unreservedly." 
 
 FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 * " Shall I own it ? I an a little anxious as to the nature of 
 our intimacy. There exists at present but one subject of dis- 
 course between us, and all seems to rest on a foundation which 
 might at any moment give way. Our mutual confidence should 
 be the result of a strong and tender friendship which would 
 stand any test, and not simply an affection dependent on a com- 
 mon interest and a temporary sympathy. I do not think that we 
 can any of us have more than one real friend, one person to whom 
 every thought can be imparted. I have found such a friend in 
 you. To you alone I reveal the inmost secrets of my soul. I am 
 nevertheless quite aware of my inferiority. You are engrossed 
 by great and important questions, and my life is very useless. 
 But as regards the deep and intimate feelings of the heart, I hope 
 and think that God has given me the gift of understanding and 
 entering into them. It is this kind of sympathy between two 
 persons which makes their friendship unalterable. A slight 
 difference in poKtical opinion cannot surely affect such an attach- 
 ment as that ! 
 
 ' " Ydu say that the warmth and vehemence of my affections 
 prevent their being as deep as they might otherwise be. Those 
 words pain me. No, I assure you, it is not a dream ; it is no 
 exaggerated light fancy which fills my heart. She has given me 
 her journal. I read in it the most secret thoughts of her mind. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 "Writing in that book is to her like going to confession. She 
 records in it every action of her life. At the end of it there are 
 sealed pages in which I am mentioned. She has begged me not 
 to try and read them, and trusts implicitly to my honour. There 
 they are. I could at any moment look at them. But she trusts 
 me, and I will not betray her confidence. 
 
 * " Is it possible, my dear friend, that you can suppose my love 
 not* to be deep ? After I have opened my heart so fully to you, 
 is it thus you judge it? I will not try any more to describe what 
 I feel. If you think I exaggerate, well, time will decide if you 
 are right. Asseverations are absurd on such a subject. Time, 
 again I say, will show if nothing in this life can last, if nothing 
 is certain ; if we are to care for nothing, and believe in nothing. 
 
 ' " Good-bye, my dear Charles. I look upon you as my dearest 
 friend. Remember that it is your friendship, your complete 
 friendship I want, and that I am not satisfied ' with a great 
 amount of affection and gratitude for my sympathy in the present 
 chief interest of your life.' I felt hurt by that sentence. You 
 speak as if your regard for me was to be a sort of reward for 
 what you call my kindness to you." 
 
 ' Albert was gone to Castellamare. His parents and sisters 
 were there also, and we were soon to join them and remain there 
 a little while. Prince Lapoukhyn wrote to my mother from 
 Castellamare, and Albert also, and I had a letter from Pauline. 
 
 ' This is Albert's letter : 
 
 ' " What abominable treachery ! We could not make up our 
 minds to do without you till Friday, and now you threaten to 
 prolong our misery for four or five days longer. Do not flatter 
 yourselves that we shall submit to this cruelty, or be surprised if 
 one of these days we suddenly appear in your salon. I cannot 
 tell you what a comfort it is to me to meet the prince. I look 
 upon him as a fellow sufferer, banished like myself. Positively, 
 without any joking, life is not endurable without you. If it is 
 not presuming on your kindness, may I beg you to send me a line 
 by the bearer of this stupid note. I kiss your hands, and I throw 
 myself at the feet of Mademoiselle Alexandrine, Do say, even if 
 it should not be true, that you feel a little regret for your poor 
 hahitues. And come soon, very soon, for it is absurd to suppose 
 that we can live without you. I want very much to speak to you 
 about something, but I have not courage. I do not know what 
 to call you. ' Madame ' sonnds so cold. ' Dear Comtesse ? ' 
 That will not quite do. I should like to find some impossible 
 mezzo terniine. I end my letter, for if I were to tell you all my 
 heart is full of, you would perhaps pretend to be angry, and I 
 should be alarmed." 
 
A SISTEE'S STORY. 33 
 
 *My mother sat down instantly to answer tliis note, and I 
 wrote on the same sheet : 
 
 ' "How do you do, Albert ? I quite wonder at our solitude, 
 and yet I dread the thoughts of plunging into that world of 
 Castellamare. I have tried to occupy myself, but have done 
 nothing except finish the book you lent me. The pianoforte has 
 remained in a most untidy state, and has not even been opened 
 for two days. Ever since your departure, the wind has been 
 whistling in the woods about us, in a way which might suggest 
 the plot of a novel a la Radcliffe. But I am not in the mood for 
 composition. What is my little Pauline about ? Why don't 
 you mention her ? I am going to write her a line. To-morrow 
 we dine with the Stockelbergs ; the day after to-morrow we pack 
 up, and on Monday we shall meet again." 
 
 ' I wrote this, and went into my room a moment afterwards. I 
 heard the servant announce M. de Pietracatella and M. de Sass, 
 and then exclamations of surprise, and well-known voices. It 
 was Albert and the prince, who had stolen away from Castellamare 
 to take us by surprise in that way. Oh, how pleasant it was to 
 have so unexpectedly one of our charming evenings ! It put me 
 into such spirits. Whilst I was singing the air of La Muette, — 
 " Oh, moment enchanteur ! " — Albert, who was standing opposite 
 to the pianoforte, suddenly asked me what I should think if he 
 had read in the little book what I had so carefully pasted over. 
 I was frightened, but answered that I was quite sure he never 
 could have done it. " But if I had done it ? " "It is impossible. 
 I can never believe it." "But I have done it." "No!" My 
 confusion was increasing, but I still absolutely refused to admit 
 that he could have done such a thing. " Shall I quote a sentence 
 in it to convince you ? " " No, you cannot ; you would be only 
 inventing it." "'I think I love Albert'" — he said, gazing at 
 me as if from the depths of his eyes. 
 
 ' I looked at him, and turned my eyes away vnth such an 
 altered expression, that he was very sad all the evening. Indeed, 
 I did not feel for a little while as if I had any love for him at all, 
 but it came back again when I saw he was quite unhappy. 
 
 ' On the 18th of September we left the Vomero to go to 
 Castellamare. Albert met us, and went with us to our apart- 
 ments at the Albergo Reale. He was looking as sad as when we 
 had parted at the Yomero. I could not hold out, and said a few 
 words to him, which made us again as happy as ever. Indeed, 
 happier, for there was now no longer any disguise between us. 
 Pauline came to see me, and said that Albert had acknowledged 
 
 D 
 
34 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 his fault to her, and that he had used such strong terms of 
 self-reproach before mentioning the fact, that she had been 
 frightened, and had asked him if he had had the audacity to kiss 
 me ! Albert was quite horrified at this question, and at her even 
 imagining he could have ventured to do such a thing. 
 
 ' Our evenings at Castellamare were generally spent at the 
 
 Countess K 's house. There were always a great many 
 
 people there, and we danced on a large and beautiful terrace, 
 arranged as a drawing-room. On the first night I went there, I 
 
 was dancing the mazurka with the Count d'A . Albert, in 
 
 one of the figures, brushed by my partner, who was of a particu- 
 larly quarrelsome disposition, and who looked offended. I heard 
 some words said which made me very uneasy, and was not satis- 
 fied with Albert's answers when I questioned him about it as we 
 were going home. On the following day there was to be a great 
 breakfast at Pompeii, to which we were all invited. 
 
 * In the morning (Wednesday, the 19th of September), after a 
 very anxious night, I was delighted to hear Albert's voice in the 
 drawing-room. At first I thought they had perhaps been fight- 
 ing that morning, but I soon felt convinced that it was not all 
 right yet. The carriages were to meet at the Cafe Nuovo. 
 Pauline went with us. Albert was on horseback. She looked 
 at me and said, " What is the matter ? You look as if you had 
 seen a ghost." I said nothing, as I would not frighten her with- 
 out necessity. When we arrived at Pompeii, I saw Albert and 
 
 the Count d'A walking together in a solitary road. Then I 
 
 heard his father say, as I thought in an anxious manner, " Where 
 is Albert ? " I could not restrain my tears. Only Pauline ob- 
 served them. I would not tell her the cause, but kept thinking 
 how I could save Albert. I saw Fernand standing near me. I 
 had never spoken to him before,* but I went up to him all in 
 tears, and could only say, " Where is Albert ? Where is Albert ? " 
 Fernand perceiving I knew all about it, told me how matters 
 stood, and assured me they were talking together to make up 
 their quarrel. We were just then summoned to breakfast, a 
 great breakfast of fifty persons, in the centre of the ruins. I was 
 dreadfully ashamed of being seen with my tearful face, but there 
 was no help for it. I placed myself between Pauline and Hedwige 
 Lubomirska, who I thought would feel for me. Fernand often 
 came to tell me that it was all going on well. At last I saw 
 Albert. Mamma was watching me. The report of what had 
 passed was beginning to spread, and I felt more and more dis- 
 tressed. At last we left the table, and went to look at an ex- 
 cavation. While it was going on, Albert whispered to me, " Oh, 
 
 * He was only just arrived. 
 
A SISTEB'S STORY. 35 
 
 I love you more than ray life." Afterwards we danced in the 
 Forum. I danced the cotillon with Albert, At his request, I 
 chose in one of the fignres that terrible enemy who had given 
 me so great a fright. I cannot describe my feelings as I leant 
 on that arm — which might have killed my Albert.* 
 
 ALBERT TO THE COMTE DE MONTALEMBEBT. 
 
 * " I have put off a long time the pleasure of writing to you, 
 for my head is so confused that I find it difficult to put two ideas 
 together. I read this morning your suhmission.f How admirable 
 it is ! My father is quite enraptared with it. Let me know as 
 soon as you can what you are going to do. Do you return to 
 Italy, or do you remain at Paris ? Have I any hope of meeting 
 you anywhere ? I am thinking of going to Rome in the month 
 of December, in the first place to study a little, and then to test 
 my feelings by absenting myself awhile from Alexandrine. 
 
 ' " Dear Charles, you will be provoked with me, but I must 
 tell you about myself Since I wrote to you last, so many things 
 have happened ! So much happiness has seemed almost too 
 much for me. I mentioned to you the journal which she gave 
 me to read. After having read it over and over again, and by 
 knowing her better — having learnt to love her more and more — 
 I came to those pages which she had fastened together with a 
 sheet of paper, those pages which contained what is more im- 
 portant to me than life itself. You will exclaim at the bare 
 thought of such a breach of confidence. What would you have 
 done in my place ? I resisted for several days, but at last, in a 
 moment of frenzy, I tore away the slip of paper. I will not 
 attempt to tell you what I felt— -I really do not know it myself. 
 She loves me, my dear Charles. She is actually in love with me. 
 The moment I acknowledged my breach of trust was terrible. 
 There was something contemptuous in her countenance. It made 
 me think of the torments of hell. It was a long time before I 
 could recover myself. But now my fault is forgotten, and she 
 does not mind my knowing her secret.;}: 
 
 * The person who had called out Albert that day perished himself three 
 years afterwards in a dreadful duel. 
 
 t He speaks of the submission of MM. de Lamennais, Lacordaire, and 
 Montalembert to the decree of the Holy See, respecting the Avenir. 
 
 I It does not appear that M. de Montalembert's indignation at that breach 
 of trust proved as great as Albert supposed it would be. This was his answer : 
 ' As to the journal, I do not blame you at all, and I am sure her anger was 
 neither very great nor very deep ; nor can there have been, as you suppose, 
 contempt in her eyes. When you do not want a man to know his happiness, 
 you do not put a mere slip of paper between him and the knowledge of it.' 
 
 D 2 
 
A SISTER'S STOBY. 
 
 * " The other day I was on the point of having to fight a duel 
 for the greatest nonsense in the world. On the day after the 
 quarrel I met my adversary at Pompeii, where there was a great 
 breakfast. We had a final interview, and the matter was made 
 up. During all that time Alexandrine did not lose sight of me. 
 She was weeping, sobbing. I can't tell if it was joy or pain I 
 was feeling. You can imagine the state I am in. Is this agitation 
 a terrible foreboding, or only the fear, the terror of losing her ? 
 Of losing her, my soul, my life, my all. My dear Charles, I can 
 hardly be said to live. I am afraid of each coming day. I should 
 like to stop the progress of time. Each day is so full of bliss, 
 I have never feared or understood sorrow as much as now, when 
 happiness fills my soul. Are these fair blossoms of joy doomed 
 to fade and perish ? Oh ! no, they are a foretaste of Heaven. 
 Heaven beginning on earth ! 
 
 ' " You will again say that I exaggerate, but no, my dear friend, 
 the delightful calm which fills my soul is a token of the depth 
 and reality of my happiness. To-morrow she will give me a lock 
 of her hair. I shall carry it in a locket round my neck, as a 
 charm against all evil. I am in a fever. Joy fills my soul with 
 too intense a life. Her mother knows it all. She is so good, so 
 loving. You did not know her much, and yet you were beginning 
 to love her. When shall I see you again ? I do want you so 
 much ! I have a pining for home. It vexes me to be doing 
 nothing useful. I should like to become worthy of the great 
 happiness in store for me. Your friend for life, "Albert." 
 
 * We left Castellamare on the 29th of September. I do not 
 know why, but as we were going away, I began to cry a little. 
 Nobody saw it but Albert, and his gentle pity soothed me. But 
 I could not tell him what made me shed tears, for I was to see 
 him again next day. Perhaps I grieved because a beautiful 
 chapter of my life was closing, or because we were leaving a place 
 where we had for the first time spoken to each other without 
 disguise. One evening whilst at Castellamare, we were sitting 
 together on a balcony, looking at the sunset sky and the blue 
 sea. Mamma, even, was not in the room. We seemed to be left 
 alone with God. Albert's eyes were fixed with an enraptured 
 gaze on the setting sun, and he said, " Oh, if we could go where 
 the sun is going ! It would be so delightful to follow it, to see a 
 new world." I think he would have liked to die at that moment. 
 I admired his enthusiasm, but did not quite share his feelings. I 
 was thinking of him, whilst he was thinking of Heaven, It was 
 through him I approached God, but he went straight to Him. 
 Such moments as these seemed to sanctify the whole of the 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 37 
 
 ensuing evening. I dressed with a feeling of quiet joy in my 
 heart, liking to adorn myself, in order to give pleasure to him, 
 who was teaching me to be good.' 
 
 The story of Albert and Alexandrine has abounded up to this 
 time in expressions of feeling, which some may consider too 
 romantic and impassioned. I could not think, however, of sup- 
 pressing any of these passages. I felt it expedient to show what 
 that love was which afterwards became so sacred and so holy. 
 Let those who are incHned to say that the very attractiveness of 
 the picture makes it dangerous, only suspend their judgment and 
 read on. If they will finish the narrative, they will see how the 
 love of God grew stronger than human affection ; how faith over- 
 came and sorrow hallowed earthly passion ; above all, in what 
 way those who had loved so well bore suffering and met death. 
 
 I must now myself most reluctantly resume the thread of the 
 story, and, passing over some of the details carefully noted by 
 Alexandrine, relate that after our stay at Castellamare we went 
 back to the Vomero, and remained there till the end of October ; 
 and then returning to Naples, we found, by a singular piece of 
 good luck, that we could secure two sets of apartments in the 
 same house in the Chiaia, and we all established ourselves there 
 for the winter ; Madame d'Alopeus and Alexandrine on the first 
 floor, and we all on the second. Fernand had now been with us 
 for two months, and since the day of the breakfast at Pompeii 
 had formed an intimate and brotherly friendship with Alexandrine, 
 which never altered in the least. He was devotedly attached to 
 Albert, and was inclined to approve everything he either did or 
 wished ; so that Alexandrine could not have had a more sym- 
 pathising or discreet friend. 
 
 Ever since that scene at Pompeii, my father and mother, Ma- 
 dame d'Alopeus, and even Prince Lapoukhyn — who was now 
 engaged to Alexandrine's mother, and had, therefore, a right to 
 be interested in her daughter's affairs — had been discussing the 
 question of their marriage and the means of facilitating it. And 
 though, later on, difficulties occurred which were so many trials 
 for the lovers, no one ever really contemplated any other eventual 
 lot for them. But my father wished the strength of Albert's 
 attachment to be tested by a temporary absence, and it was agreed 
 that he should spend in Rome part of that winter which we had 
 begun so joyfully under the same roof at Naples. We scarcely 
 knew at that time what real sorrow is, and thought the slightest 
 disappointments trials. We accordingly considered this decision 
 a very rigorous one, and were all, except Albert himself, inclined 
 
38 A SISTEB'S STORY. 
 
 to gniinble a little. He was eager to prove the strength of his 
 attachment, and wished in every way to please his father. He 
 thought he had occasioned some anxiety to his parents on this 
 subject, and this grieved him, at the same time that he felt deeply 
 grateful for their kindness in lending themselves to his wishes in 
 a matter which could not be arranged without much difficulty 
 and even sacrifices on their part. 
 
 I ought to mention that, even before the day of the breakfast 
 at Pompeii, he had opened his heart to his father. The following 
 note was written at the Vomero, probably after the evening when 
 at the Floridiana he had said, ' I love you,' to Alexandrine : 
 
 'My dearest Father, — I have been thinking, for some time 
 past, that I ought to be open with you, and tell you honestly and 
 simply what are my present feelings. But the fear that you will 
 laugh at what is perhaps ridiculous, but nevertheless makes me 
 unhappy, has prevented my speaking when you have asked me if 
 I had anything on my mind. I tried to look unconcerned. Any- 
 thing on my mind, why I am sometimes almost out of my mind ! 
 But you know all about it. Why should I not own to you that I 
 am in love ? I cannot say whether the feverish excitement from 
 which I suffer is the cause or the result of this feeling. For three 
 months I have tried to subdue it by hard work. But far from 
 succeeding, the very means T employ for that end only seem to 
 stimulate what I am endeavouring to conquer. I am like the 
 Roman race-horses ; the more efforts I make to get away from 
 the spur, the deeper it seems to gall me. 
 
 * I had thought of going to join my two friends, but in my pre- 
 sent state of mind they would drive me mad. If you had anything 
 for me to do at Paris, the stir and excitement there would perhaps 
 be of use to me, and I could come back with Charles [his brother]. 
 In short, my dear father, you see I must try to get out of this 
 state of mind. I have endeavoured to reason with myself, and 
 Pauline has striven, too, to help me. I know that I do wrong to 
 indulge this passion, and particularly wrong to let Alexandrine 
 see it. She knows now what I feel. I have told her of it, and I 
 am frightened at what I have done. And yet I cannot control 
 myself. What will you say to this confession ? Will you be 
 vexed with me, or sorry for me ? I don't know what you ought 
 to feel, but I know that I am very unhappy. I would have told 
 you all this, but I cannot yet speak about it. I have many 
 things I long to say, and if we talk together, I hope to open my 
 heart entirely to you. I am glad to have written. I could not 
 exist without perfect confidence in you, my dearest father. If 
 you feel inclined to laugh, spare me, for ray heart is very sore 
 just now.' 
 
A SISTEE'S STORY. a9 
 
 Albert, as I have already said, was so happy at being allowed 
 to hope for the eventual accomplishment of his most ardent 
 wishes, that he accepted his exile and submitted to the trial of 
 absence with greater resignation, perhaps, than Alexandrine. He 
 was to leave Naples on the 4th of November. I leave her to 
 describe the eve of her departure : 
 
 ' Albert was to have gone away in the evening. I was scarcely 
 to see him at all, for we were going to the opera. Whilst I was 
 dining alone with Mamma, I burst into tears. She was most 
 dear and kind. She said she understood my feelings, and gave 
 me hopes. Still when I arrived at San Carlo, sorrow completely 
 transformed the whole aspect of the house, the stage, the lights, 
 and everything. Instead of the bright, fete-like look I used to 
 think it had when I was quietly enjoying Albert's society, it 
 seemed to me now like an illuminated sepulchre. But this im- 
 pression was soon dispelled when Albert came and said to me : 
 " I do not set off this evening. I am going to-morrow night. I 
 have obtained one day's reprieve." This delay gave us strength 
 and resignation. We were even tolerably cheerful the following 
 evening. He started at five o'clock in the morning.' 
 
 During his absence there was only one exception to the reso- 
 lution they had both taken, not to communicate directly with 
 each other. Fernand, who had no scruples where there was 
 question of giving pleasure to Albert, obtained a few lines one 
 day from Alexandrine to enclose in one of his own letters. This 
 is the note : 
 
 * Fernand, after trying in vain to persuade me to write to you, 
 told me at last that you wished it, and thus induced me to do so. 
 For God's sake, and if you love me, try at any cost, even at my 
 expense, in any way you can think of, to be happy, provided you 
 do not offend Grod. You must not vex your father ; you must do 
 all he wishes, and as he vrishes. I care not if you love another, 
 so that you are happy. I assure you I should like it better than 
 that you should love me and be unhappy. Your happiness will 
 always constitute mine. I hope you will not object to mj making 
 a confidential friend of Fernand. He loves you so much ; even 
 more so than your sisters, I think. It makes me very fond of 
 him, and it is the greatest comfort to me to talk to him about you. 
 I am vexed not to be able to tell Pauline what I am doing, for if 
 she questions me, I shall be obliged to say what is not true, that 
 you may not be placed in the same difficulty. I do entreat you 
 not to write to me at all. You can tell Fernand anything you 
 wish me to know. Your father told Pauline that he should not 
 believe in the strength of our attachment until we had been two 
 
40 A SISTEB'S STORY. 
 
 years without meeting or writing a line to one another. We must 
 not be deceitful ; this is the last time I shall ever write to you in 
 secret. Adieu ! My best prayers are those I put up for you. I 
 hope God will hear me, and that you will be happy. Do not be 
 afraid of unsettling me. If you forget me and yet are happy, I 
 shall be content. I cannot seal this note, but it does not signify, 
 Fernand will not read it.' 
 
 Femand was writing at the same time : 
 
 ' You will be furious, but remember that 1 am the only guilty 
 person. I send you a note from Alexandrine. I induced her to 
 write by pretending that it would give you pleasure, and that you 
 had told me so. My dear good Albert, do not be too angry. I 
 thought it would be such a comfort to you. I am so dull and 
 sad since you went. I have just seen Alexandrine. She says my 
 father has written to tell you not to come back at present ; but, 
 upon my word, if you had seen her you never could have helped 
 coming. The post is going out, and I can only send these few 
 words. I promised Alexandrine to write to you, and I was bent 
 on keeping my promise, and telling you at the same time how 
 earnestly I desire your happiness and hers. Write to me, I 
 beseech you. Alex begs you will do so very often. She likes to 
 see me. I talk about you, which has made us confidential friends, 
 of which I am not a little proud. Adieu. I love you with all my 
 heart. Come back soon. — Fernand. 
 
 ' I need not say that I have not read the enclosed.' 
 
 To this letter Albert wrote the following reply : 
 
 ' My own dear Brother, — It is very wrong indeed, but I love 
 you more than ever. You can hardly know the good you did to 
 a poor solitary fellow, far from those he cares about. That beloved 
 note was like a drop of cold water to a wretch dying of fever. 
 But for all that slie must 7wt write to me again. I try to cheat my 
 thoughts, but if I succeed in the day, when I come home in the 
 evening I feel that I love her, that I am not in the least changed, 
 and as I He down to sleep I pray for her and for myself. Not that 
 I have slept yet. I am, however, quite satisfied. I can bear any 
 suffering Grod chooses to send me. I have had more than my 
 share of happiness. I can defy future misfortunes, for I have 
 lived, and my life has been blessed by her love. One thing ' 
 only could break my heart, which would be to know she was 
 unhappy. I would even rather lose the recollection of those rap- 
 turous days, the only happy ones I have known, than see her 
 grieve. I had written her a long letter, but I tore it up. Sho 
 
UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF 
 
 A SISTEE'S STOEY. 41 
 
 cliarges me not to answer lier note, and it is better I should not 
 do so. We shall one day meet again, and then she will learn all 
 the sufferings of a heart for ever devoted to her. As she says 
 herself: " We must not be deceitful.^' Therefore, my best Fernand, 
 great as is the sacrifice, do not extort from her any more letters 
 for me. We must try to do without this consolation. If she 
 should forget me, it will be better for her. I shall then be as one 
 dead to the world, and hving only on the remembrance of the 
 happy past. 
 
 ' Be very affectionate to Alexandrine. Win her confidence, and 
 speak to her often of me. You will be surprised, perhaps, at 
 what I am going to say, but I do not intend myself to act in the 
 same way. This is the last letter in which I shall make such 
 frequent mention of her. But tell me, what is the matter with 
 you ? Tour last letter was quite a sad one. Try, my dear bro- 
 ther, not to give way to low spirits, especially before our dear 
 father and mother. It increases their sorrow to see us unhappy, 
 and they have enough of it as it is. Set to work in some way or 
 other. The weariness which an idle life creates is a great source 
 of dejection. I am preaching to you, and I ought rather to preach 
 to myself. I try all I can, but find it impossible to fix my atten- 
 tion for one hour together on the same thing.' 
 
 Our life returned to be much the same as during the preceding 
 winters ; less gay, perhaps, but more enjoyable, because of Alexan- 
 drine's companionship. I find in my journal, from which I have 
 already quoted, that at the hour when Eugenie and I used in 
 former years to gather our bouquets, we now went up to the ter- 
 race at the top of the house, and, looking over the lovely view and 
 the blue sky, said our Rosary together. When the day was 
 closing, we generally met in Madame d'Alopeus' salon. To the 
 number of her daily visitors were now added the Count Maurice 
 Putbus, an excellent and devoted friend of Alexandrine and her 
 mother, and the Count Malte Putbus, his nephew. The former 
 will often appear in this narrative. The latter, like so many of 
 the younger members of that family circle, was carried off by a 
 severe illness, soon after Albert's death, to whom he was much 
 attached, although very unlike him in every respect. 
 
 In one of Albert's letters to Eugenie, he says : — 'You give me 
 a charming account of the way in which you all live together. 
 You seem so happy, so intimate ! Do not talk to me so much 
 about it, for it makes me envious,' Madame d'Alopeus, who was 
 often ill, entrusted Alexandrine to my mother, and we used to go 
 out together like three sisters. At last, about a month before the 
 time which had been fixed for Albert's absence, our dear parents 
 
42 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 relented and agreed that lie slionld return. To onr great joy, on 
 the 7th of January, 1833, he came amongst us again. 
 
 I now have recourse to Alexandrine's manuscript, which carries 
 on the narrative up to the time of our separation, three months 
 afterwards. 
 
 ' This is what I find in my journal ^t the date of the 7th of 
 January, 1833. I was sitting upstairs with Pauhne, when all of 
 a sudden the door opened, and Albert rushed in. Yes, there he 
 was, kissing Pauline affectionately with all his warmth of manner, 
 and looking so delightfully happy ! I had not seen him for two 
 whole months ! We had no secrets from Pauline, still we did not, 
 before her, show more than a very little bit of the joy we felt at 
 being once more together. And, indeed, we could hardly at first 
 realise our happiness. It required time to take in the idea that 
 those pleasant days were actually going to begin again, after such 
 a long separation. Two whole months ! I felt that first day a 
 kind of embarrassment with Albert, on account of his knowing 
 now so well how much I loved him. But it was all very pleasant. 
 We went to a ball in the evening. I felt full of life and spirits, 
 and everything I saw seemed transformed as if by magic. When 
 I was waltzing with Albert it made me indeed a little shy to 
 think that people were looking at us, and perhaps joking and 
 saying with a smile : "Ah ! they are quite happy now ! " But 
 nothing could spoil my enjoyment. I did not care the least what 
 was said, and was too happy to give it even a thought. During 
 the cotillon, wliich I also danced with Albert, I went up to Pau- 
 line and whispered to her, in a kind of ecstacy : "0 Pauline, I 
 am so happy." She was quite touched. 
 
 ' I went home at three o'clock in the morning with the La 
 Ferronnays. Eugenie sent up some tea to my room. It made me 
 feel like one of the family. I had before me the prospect of a 
 most deHghtful time, and not looking beyond it, I went to bed 
 enraptured. 
 
 ' I was very happy for several days, though we led a Vorldly, 
 unsettled life ; but for me it was filled with Albert. There were 
 several balls, and one in particular, a fancy ball, to which I went 
 dressed in black and gold, with pearls and a veil. This costume 
 was taken from a print of Fraucesca da Rimini. This is a note 
 which I wrote a few days before that ball from our drawing-room, 
 where I was alone, to my friends upstairs. It amused them all, 
 and Albert kept it ; I found it afterwards amongst his letters : 
 
 * " Dear People, — ^When you have done your dinner, you will 
 give me great pleasure if you will come down in a body, but the 
 
A SZSTEE'S STORY. 43 
 
 body must be as quiet as if it was only one person, for tbe door 
 of Mamma's room is wide open. Be so kind, Eugenie, as to bring 
 me the gold lace, and everything of gold you possess. If you 
 have time, Pauline, I want you to come and see me, and to say 
 how well I should have looked at Lady Drummond's ball.* 
 Mind all of you, if you come, not to make more noise than one." 
 
 ' Oh, what a pleasant, home-like life we were already leading 
 then !   To live in the same house with Albert's parents, to see 
 him from morning to night, and to know, though we did not 
 speak of it to each other, that arrangements were in progress for 
 our marriage. I used to awake with the thought that in a few 
 hours I should see him, and those few hours were spent in plea- 
 sant musings, in my interminable toilette,t and in talking a little 
 at breakfavst with Mamma. Even to hear the voices or the foot- 
 steps of the dear people upstairs was a pleasure. And then at last 
 came the moment when I could expect to see Albert. Sometimes 
 he was present at my singing lesson ; at other moments I found 
 him in his sisters' room. I almost always saw him once in the 
 course of the morning, and then again at that delightful twilight 
 hour when our intimate friends assembled round our fire. We 
 parted for a short time for dinner, and then met again to spend a 
 long evening together. When we had only friends with us, I 
 used to work at my cross stitch, or sing, or copy out favourite 
 passages from the books I was reading. I have those passages 
 now before me, and some words are underlined that express the 
 feelings which were then, and have since been, my own, 
 
 ' " Methinks it is Heaven only to gaze upon him ... to set 
 down as food for memory every look and every movement." Ah ! 
 I was right in thinking that it was well for me to treasure up all 
 Albert's looks and words ! 
 
 ' I see that the date of Saturday, the 9th of February, is under- 
 lined, which means that something of consequence happened that 
 day, and I remember what it was. 
 
 ' My mother and Albert's parents were dining with Count 
 Stackelberg, and I was allowed to dine upstairs with Albert, 
 Eernand, and their four sisters. This we thought great fun. 
 After dinner Pauline and Eugenie had to go and dress for a party 
 before I went down stairs. Their two little sisters were playing 
 
 * She was to have gone to this ball with us, but had given it up on account 
 of her mother's indisposition. 
 
 t Alexandrine, neither then nor later, ever cared for dress. But she had 
 nevertheless a habit of spending a very long time about it ; and at a different 
 period of her life, in spite of all her efforts, and even when her dress had be- 
 come more than simple, she never could arrive at getting through the process 
 quickly. 
 
44 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 a duet on the pianoforte. Fernand, finding himself en trio with 
 Albert and me, declared it was very awkward, and, joking about 
 it, pretended to go to sleep, and covered his face with his pocket 
 handkerchief Albert and I stood conversing near the chimney- 
 piece. After a little while I wanted to go away, for it did not seem 
 to me quite proper to remain there alone with my friends' brothers 
 and the two little girls. While I was lingering, Albert just 
 touched my forehead with his lips ; so suddenly that I was taken 
 by surprise. I felt very angry, and without saying a word took 
 my shawl and left the room. When I was alone in mine, I kept 
 thinking over what had passed, and I was really much annoyed. 
 It seemed to me as if our pleasant existence had undergone a 
 change, and that a disagreeable one. At that moment I did not 
 feel quite certain that I loved him as much as I did before, and I 
 hoped he would not come down till Mamma was at home, or some 
 other visitor had called. Malte Putbus came, and soon afterwards 
 Albert, looking very much out of spirits. As soon as he could do 
 so, he told me that he had been deeply grieved by my reproachful 
 glance. He seemed very penitent, and did not attempt to excuse 
 himself; but he spoke so well and feelingly, that before the even- 
 ing was over my resentment had vanished. 
 
 ' Saturday, February 11th. — I went with Albert's parents to 
 the ball at the Academy. When we came home I went upstairs 
 with them to have some tea. Pauline and Eugenie ran to their 
 rooms to take off their cloa,ks, and I remained alone with Albert 
 in the drawing-room, drinking my tea in haste, for I wanted to 
 go down again. He was admiring, I think, my long curls. He 
 took one of them in his hands, and pressed it gently to his lips. I 
 was displeased, but not so much as that other time. It did not 
 seem to me quite so bad. 
 
 * Shrove Tuesday. — We spent the morning in the Corso, where 
 the noise, the crowd, and the wild frolic raised my spirits to the 
 highest pitch. Prince Lapoukhyn had engaged a balcony whence 
 we could throw sugar plums. We had been ourselves deluged 
 with them during a drive with Pauline and her father. We stood 
 there to see the king pass in his illuminated car. At last, tired 
 with waiting, I sat down to rest in the little room to which the 
 balcony belonged. The king did not go by till seven o'clock, and 
 we had then to hurry home for dinner, and to dress for the ball. 
 I can remember so well the glad feeling in my heart whilst I was 
 in that little room, half dozing and half watching for the passage 
 of those pretty illuminated cars. Albert was there, and I was to 
 meet him again in the evening at the ball. Though I was not at 
 all sorry that Lent was coming, yet I liked that all that appear- 
 ance of gaiety and those numerous festivities should mark, as it 
 
A SISTER'S STOBY. 45 
 
 were, the hours I spent with him. My overflowing happiness 
 made me enjoy these amusements, and I took a sort of triumphant 
 deHght in multiplying them. Oh, poor human weakness ! 
 
 ' When once Lent had begun, I felt happier every day. We 
 conversed much more seriously than whilst the balls were going 
 on. He talked to me a great deal about Grod, of the Angels, and 
 of his dear religion, for which I felt an increasing attraction. I 
 enjoyed a happiness so complete, so unexpected, so much beyond 
 what I had ever even dreamt of, that it filled my heart with gra- 
 titude towards God, and made me more kind and indulgent to 
 every one. I used to thank God that Albert was so much better 
 than other people, and I thought myself far more fortunate than 
 so many women who are loved in a frivolous manner, and who, I 
 dare say, never thought of envying me. 
 
 ' Holy Tuesday, April 2nd. — I felt to-day a great love for God, 
 and for Albert also ; and I wrote in my journal the first letters of 
 the words " For ever," and " May God be always with us." 
 
 ' Holy Thursday. — My mother gave me leave to go with my 
 friends to the Tenebrce in the royal Chapel. The music was beau- 
 tiful. Notwithstanding my frivolity, there was something in 
 that lovely Chapel, the singing, and above all, perhaps, in the 
 feeling that I was kneeling by my Albert's side, which made me pray 
 with devotion. I was glad to look like a Catholic. Long before 
 my conversion this used to please me. M. de la Ferronnays came 
 to fetch us away. The walk home was perfect ; the moon shining 
 brightly, and the Neapolitan spring beginning to embalm the air. 
 We stopped at several Churches on our way, to pray before the 
 sepulchres. It is the custom in Naples to visit seven Churches 
 on that day. Albert and I knelt down side by side on the pave- 
 ment. There was in this something inexpressibly sweet to me. I 
 do not know exactly what I prayed for, but I know we both raised 
 onr hearts to God with a full reliance on His goodness. I walked 
 with him and his sisters ; M. and Madame de la Ferronnays fol- 
 lowing us. Thus we went down the whole length of the Villa 
 Reale, by the light of the moon and the stars, our hearts full of 
 adoring love for God and afiection for one another.' 
 
 * About that time Albert wrote a letter to the Abbe Martin de 
 Noirlieu, a great friend of his, and received the following answer, 
 which he showed me : 
 
46 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 THE ABBE MAETIN DE NOIRLIEU* TO ALBERT. 
 
 * " My dear Friend, — I have received the books you returned to 
 me. And so you copied out yourself the whole of the little volume ! 
 This is indeed a proof of the zeal which true affection inspires. 
 And it inclines me to believe that the lady for whom you accom- 
 plished this work of love is intended by Providence to become 
 the partner of your life. God's ways are so wonderful and merci- 
 ful that we should never be discouraged by earthly obstacles. 
 Persevere, my dear Albert, in your solicitude for that soul which 
 is so dear to you. If you bring it to the knowledge of the truth, 
 you will have made a conquest for God, and she will be yours not 
 for time only but for eternity. It is especially to prayer that you 
 must have recourse in this important matter, for light comes 
 down from above, and thence must also proceed that courage 
 which is so necessary when we have to overcome early prejudices 
 and impressions imbibed in infancy. I am not surprised at what 
 
 you tell me of the agitation which Mademoiselle feels at the 
 
 idea of a change of religion. It seems to her as if in taking this 
 step she had to cross an abyss, and, however courageous a person 
 may be, it is natural to draw back on the brink of an unfathom- 
 able abyss. Protestants erroneously suppose that in renouncing 
 heresy they are compelled to trample under foot and anathematize 
 those they leave behind. God forbid that this should be the case ! 
 We condemn error, but we feel only love and pity for those whom 
 it enthrals. By the fact of her reception into the Church she 
 will simply declare that she returns to the faith which her ances- 
 tors held for fifteen centuries, and renounces the errors which 
 separated from Catholic unity those amongst them who lived 
 three hundred years ago. She will leave it to God to decide on 
 individual cases, for He alone can judge who are and who are not 
 in good faith in their heretical or schismatical position. In short, 
 my dear friend, tell her that there is no salvation except for those 
 who are in Catholic unity, or else for those who having been born 
 in heresy are entirely in good faith, and would be ready to become 
 Catholics at once if they thought that in so doing they would 
 please God. But as to those who have doubts and will not seek 
 instruction, or, which is still worse, who maintain that their fore- 
 iathers sinned in breaking the unity of the Church, and yet per- 
 severe in remaining themselves out of its pale, they are fearfully 
 guilty. 
 
 ' " That soul interests me deeply, my dear Albert. I have al- 
 
 * The Abbe Martin de Noirlieu, who was the first priest Alexandrine ever 
 knew, is now Cure of Saint Louis d'Antin, Paris. It whs this excellent and 
 venerable friend of Albert's who, a few years later, received Alexandrine into 
 the Church. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 47 
 
 ready prayed for her this morning at Mass. I sincerely com- 
 passionate her mental sufferings. Tell her to hope, and, above 
 all, to pray much. Ask her what she would do if she knew that 
 the Mother of Our Lord was on earth and living near her. I 
 have no doubt she would go at once and ask for her prayers. 
 Let her, then, have recourse to this good Mother in Heaven. If 
 she invokes her with confidence, she is sure to be heard." 
 
 ' The book which the Abbe Martin speaks of formed a thick 
 manuscript in Albert's handwriting. He wished me to read it 
 during the time of our approaching separation. It was to be his 
 parting present. I received it with great pleasure and interest. 
 It was my first book of instruction in Catholicism. 
 
 ' On the 11th of April our friends made an excursion to 
 Peestum. Albert went with them, though he was suffering from 
 a bad ear-ache, to which he did not pay any attention. Nobody 
 was ever more courageous about bearing pain than Albert. His 
 health was not good even at that time, but I felt no anxiety on 
 the subject. I sometimes think that pitying Angels drove away 
 from me all sad forebodings, for even up to the last months of 
 his life, I was strangely unconscious of his danger. I now re- 
 member that at this very time, at Naples, he used often to tell 
 me that he had fever at night ; but as he was fretting very much 
 about our approaching separation, I thought this sufficiently ac- 
 counted for it. How we should ever be able to live apart we 
 could not imagine. But we generally tried to comfort each other 
 by hopes for the future, and by looking forward to the time when 
 we should meet again, and then never to part any more ! 
 
 ' During these last days, when every moment was precious, 
 my mother, who was a little unwell, used to have the door of 
 her room open, and until she went to bed, Albert was allowed to 
 remain with me in the drawing-room. I was anxious not to 
 annoy her, and I was afraid she would be displeased if he stayed 
 too long ; so I used sometimes to urge him to go away. I had 
 done so one evening, and then when he had left I found that 
 Mamma was not nearly ready to go to bed, and I was vexed to 
 have lost a few minutes of his society. I wrote on a little bit 
 of paper : " Dear friend, I have lost a few minutes. Mamma is 
 not gone to bed yet. God bless you ; " and I threw it from the 
 balcony to Albert. A carriage was passing at that moment, and 
 I was afraid he would be hurt as he threw himself forward to 
 pick up the paper ; but with his quick eyes and usual dexterity, 
 he saw the note and secured it. This romantic little scene 
 amused us, and the other day, more than a year after his death, 
 
48 A SISTER'S STOBY. 
 
 I found that little scrap of paper in one of his books. I did not 
 even know that he had preserved it. 
 
 * April 28th. — I wrote in my journal : " I cannot realise the 
 fact that we are actually to start to-morrow. I have always 
 found it difficult to believe in any happy time of my life coming 
 to an end. Surely this is a token that there is a life, and that a 
 happy Hfe, to come." Pauline wrote that same day in my 
 journal : " May God take us all under His care," and " Grant us 
 the blessing soon to meet again, all happier than in this parting 
 hour." 
 
 * On the last evening Albert stayed with me a long time. At 
 first with Fernand, Eugenie, and Malte, and this was almost as 
 good as being alone together. Afterwards we were by ourselves. 
 I hardly can tell whether we felt most at that moment the 
 sorrow of parting, or the joy which it gave us to know that we 
 loved each other so tenderly. His sisters came down again. 
 We four sat a little while together, talking rather sadly, and then 
 they went away. That night was such 'a wretched one, that 
 though it has been followed by many joyous ones, and by others 
 a thousand times more terrible and sad, I cannot yet think of it 
 without pain. It was, in fact, our last earthly separation. We 
 met once more, and never parted again until death came ; a 
 more awful, but perhaps less bitter, separation, than earthly 
 farewells. 
 
 ' I said good-bye to him from the balcony, and when towards 
 morning I went to bed, I most fervently begged of God to take 
 pity on us ; and I think that prayer gave me strength. 
 
 ' On the following morning — Tuesday, April 30th, 1833, the 
 day of parting — we were determined to be courageous and hopeful. 
 We felt it would never do to look on this separation in its worse 
 light. At eight o'clock in the morning Albert's sisters were in 
 my room. Afterwards I went up with them to see their mother, 
 who gave me a turquoise ring, which made me burst into tears. 
 At two o'clock we all went together to the Crocelle, an hotel at 
 Chiatamone, where Prince Lapoukhyn had invited us to dinner. 
 But what a sad dinner it was ! I could not any longer' restrain 
 my tears and sobs. I was sitting by Eugenie, who entreated me 
 to control myself, for she was afraid my mother would be dis- 
 pleased by this excessive grief. 
 
 ' At last, at a quarter to four, we had taken leave of everybody, 
 and were seated in our travelling carriage. As we were going 
 downstairs Albert asked me to give him full permission to hope. 
 I looked at him quite surprised that he should still need such an 
 assurance, and answered affirmatively. Those were our last 
 words before that long separation. Albert and Fernand followed 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 49 
 
 us for a long time in an open caleche in the pouring rain, which 
 must have drenched them to the skin. I saw them a little 
 longer in this way, but we could not speak to one another. At 
 last, after a great wa^dng of hands, their carriage stopped, and 
 we lost sight of it. This rain, which did Albert so much harm, 
 delayed the departure of the Sulh/, in which he was to have 
 sailed that night for France, with his mother and Pauline and 
 Eugenie. M. de la Ferronnays was to travel with them only as 
 far as Civita Vecchia, and from thence proceed to Rome with his 
 two youngest daughters.' 
 
 As Alexandrine said, our departure was delayed till the next 
 day, the 1st of May. We were all very low, first on account of 
 the parting with Alexandrine, also from the fear that our absence 
 from Naples might prove longer than we wished, and chiefly be- 
 cause we were to lose our dearest father and our little sisters at 
 Civita Vecchia. My mother was going with iis to France, on 
 business. My father was taking my sisters to the Convent of the 
 Trinita da Monte, at Rome, where they were to spend three 
 months, and 01 ga to make her First Communion. As we were 
 all to meet again in Rome on that occasion, we were not looking 
 forward to a long separation ; but in those days we were so used 
 to happiness, that it made us exacting. And now this state 
 of things was about to be intermpted, and we were for the first 
 time to experience serious anxiety. 
 
 Albert had not been strong for some time, and the wetting he 
 had had on the evening of Alexandrine's departure, had done 
 him far more harm than we were aware of. During the first 
 part of our passage he looked ill, but we attributed it to the 
 sorrow he felt in parting with her. When the evening closed in, 
 the sea grew rough, and we all went to lie down. On arriving 
 at Civita Vecchia, Albert asked my mother to let him remain 
 there for a couple of days, as he wished to be bled. He would 
 then follow us to Paris, he said, and arrive there as soon as we 
 did. He had, unfortunately, lately adopted that common and 
 injurious Italian practice of having recourse to bleeding, on the 
 most trifling occasions, and whenever his head or his chest felt 
 uncomfortable, he insisted on being bled, without even taking 
 medical advice. Though my mother had not the slightest idea 
 how ill he felt, she would on no account have left him alone ; but 
 as his father and his little sisters were to land at Civita Vecchia, 
 this seemed the safest and most prudent coarse. Indeed, there 
 was no time for discussion, for the boat was about to start. My 
 father decided that Albert should remain with him, and that we 
 
 E 
 
60 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 should continue our journey. So at three o'clock in the morning 
 we went on board again, with heavier hearts than on the pre- 
 ceding day, but still without any idea of the sorrow which was 
 hanging over us. Our boat was not out of sight, when Albert 
 was seized with so violent a fever and inflammation of the lungs, 
 that the physician pronounced his life to be in imminent danger. 
 I have often thought that my mother, who was to go through so 
 many subsequent trials, was in mercy spared the sight of this 
 illness. Though she felt the parting with Albert, and was un- 
 easy about him, she did not know the urgency of the danger till 
 it was in a great measure past. It may be easily imagined with 
 what feelings she received the following letter two days after our 
 arrival in Paris : 
 
 FROM M. DE LA FERRONNATS TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 ' In order to give you the account which I know you are im- 
 patiently expecting, I ought to put my own thoughts into some 
 kind of arrangement, which is not easy. First of all, do not be 
 uneasy. The danger is past. We might have been indeed 
 wretched at this moment. Thank Grod ! for He it is who puts 
 wise thoughts into our minds, that I decided on keeping our 
 child here. He would not have arrived alive at Leghorn. And 
 thank Him also, that Miss McCarthy* was on board the same 
 steamer, and that there was a man-of-war in the harbour. But 
 for all these circumstances, God knows what would have hap- 
 pened ! You remember that just before starting, the little doctor 
 came in to say that Albert had only caught a chill. After putting 
 you on board, I asked him to go back with me to see him again. 
 We had been away barely twenty minutes. Imagine what I felt 
 at seeing the little man, after only just glancing at him, throw 
 off his coat, take out his lancet, and at once bleed him in the arm. 
 All aghast, I asked him what was the matter. " The matter ! " 
 he said, " only just feel his legs, and you will see." They were 
 as cold as ice. A few moments more and our son would have 
 been dead. That bleeding saved his life. The blood began to 
 circulate again, and he fell asleep. We owe his safety to that 
 little doctor. 
 
 ' Since that moment, good excellent Miss McCarthy became 
 my teacher and my guardian angel. You know what a skilful 
 nurse she is, but you can hardly picture to yourself what has 
 been her devotedness, her tender care of Albert. I did my best 
 under her direction, and you can imagine the night we spent by 
 liis bedside, or in the room of our poor little girls, who were fre- 
 
 * Eugenie's former governess. 
 
A SISTEB'S STORY. 61 
 
 quently startled out of their sleep by their brother's moanings. 
 But I will not enlarge upon it now. More than once I thanked 
 God that you were spaied this suffering. In the morning the 
 fever had abated, and being somewhat re-assured by the doctor, 
 and at the same time anxious as to the effect of this agitation 
 upon the children, I thought it best to take them at once to 
 Rome, and leave them at the convent. Lapoukhyn came to me 
 there, and most kindly proposed just what I most wished, that 
 is, to send his own physician to Albert. I will tell you another 
 time about that dear, sweet Alexandrine. She loves him too well 
 to have been able to conceal her distress. Her secret is no longer 
 a secret now ; but what does it signify ? If, as the Abbe Martin 
 thinks, this marriage is made in Heaven, it will take place, and 
 prove a blessing. They both deserve to be happy. 
 
 ' In the afternoon I left Rome, carrying ojff with me that good, 
 skilful physician, Sauvan. We found Albert less well than when 
 I left him, in a high fever, and with a dry hacking cough. Sau- 
 van immediately bled him, and applied mustard poultices to his 
 feet. My dearest love, I cannot tell 3'ou what I went through 
 in seeing the sufferings of our beloved and patient child. At eight 
 o'clock this morning, Sauvan found it necessary to bleed him once 
 more, and now, as I am sitting writing by his bedside, he seems 
 nearly himself again. 
 
 ' I did not write by yesterday's post, for I had nothing but 
 anxious fears to impart. I was almost out of my mind with grief, 
 and should have talked nonsense. I am miserable when I think 
 that it will be a whole fortnight before you receive this letter, and 
 that during all that time you will be fearing and suffering. Oh, it has 
 been indeed a trial ! I can never be grateful enough to that dear, 
 old Miss McCarthy. All the money I can give her, and all the 
 affection I can show her, will never repay one-half of our debt of 
 gratitude. How we feel to love one who is helping us to save a 
 beloved child from the jaws of death. How charming and clever 
 we think them. I think I should have quite lost my head but 
 for this good woman. Even as it was, I could hardly control 
 myself. Poor dear woman, she has never taken off her clothes 
 since she was lying on the deck of the steamer. She has scarcely 
 eaten or drunk, or slept for more than half-an-hour, for four days, 
 all for the sake of our child. Our poor boy's changed face looks 
 sadly wan and pale. He is dreadfully thin, and his eyes so large 
 and sunken. Still, he is better; he feels so, he says, and he wishes 
 me to tell you, and to add that he dotes upon you and on his 
 sisters. His only grief is not to be with you. He can speak 
 now ; he coughs less, and breathes more easily, and I hardly 
 know whether to grieve or rejoice. He is, I think, out of danger, 
 
 e2 
 
62 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 but it is terrible to see him looking so dreadfully ill. I see now 
 there is nothing one would not go through for one's children. 
 How glad I should be to take our Albert's place on thai bed of 
 suflPering ! Well, I trust Almighty God will not try us any fur- 
 ther. He will hear our prayers, and yours especially, who have 
 always received with resignation and sweetness every cross He 
 has laid upon you. Ah, this has been a great trial, my dearest 
 wife, and a great escape ! I promise to bless God for it with all 
 my heart. 
 
 ' I will tell you another day what I felt when the boat took 
 you all away. How my heart ached whilst T stood gazing on it 
 with lK)t, dry, tearless eyes, until it lessened and then disap- 
 peared. For a long time I could still discern the faint trail of 
 the smoke, then that too passed away, and I found myself alone ; 
 alone with my dying boy. Oh, my dear Albertine, when I see 
 you and my girls again, I may perhaps forget what I have suf- 
 fered, and what I am still going through ; but till then ! . , . . 
 Well, on the whole, Albert is better. I would not tell you so if 
 it were otherwise. The doctor made me very happy just now by 
 giving me full directions about his mode of life during his reco- 
 very, and our journey to Rome. This shows he is sincere, when 
 he says he is out of danger. I fully believe it, and so will you. 
 
 ' I have agreed with Madame Barat * that Olga should com- 
 mence at once to prepare for her First Communion, but not to 
 make it till the time when we hope all to be with her, at that im- 
 portant moment of her life. You would have been pleased to see 
 me watching over our little girls, and looking at them in their 
 beds. Farewell, my dearest wife. Xou must forgive this inco- 
 herent letter, for my head, my heart, and my body, are almost 
 worn out. I am nearly in a fever myself. The next time I write, 
 I hope to do so in a more rational manner. Farewell, my dear love. 
 Kiss, for me, my darling girls, my dear, good Charles, and all our 
 dear ones. Love me always, and above all pray for me and for 
 Albert. Poor dear Albert, how much he has suffered ! Once more 
 adieu.' 
 
 FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 * Civita Vecchia: May 10th. 
 ' My dear Wife, — Albert is out of danger. Be happy, and thank 
 God ! He was much worse again on Monday, the 6th, and we 
 had no medical men but those of Civita Vecchia, who showed, 
 however, more skill than I expected. The crisis came on about 
 the middle of the day. It was terrible while it lasted, and had it 
 
 * Madame Barat was the foundress of the Order of the Sacred Heart, and 
 who died lately a holy death, at Paris, at the advanced age of eighty-seven. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 53 
 
 continued a few hours longer, I should have been obliged to send 
 you to-day nothing but the heart-breaking announcement of the 
 loss of the dearest and best child ever given to any parents. But 
 God has had mercy on us. In less than two hours Albert's pulse 
 rose to 170, with a dreadful difficulty in breathing. I sent for 
 the two doctors, who immediately bled him. This produced some 
 relief, but there still seemed reason to apprehend another crisis, 
 which our poor child could not have lived through. We remained 
 in agonising suspense from three to seven o'clock. At that time 
 an abundant perspiration came on, which till then the physician 
 had vainly endeavoured to bring about. This was the one thing 
 to be desired, and oh, with what ardour I poured forth thanks- 
 givings from the very depths of my soul ! You will understand 
 it, for you love our children as much as I do. How everything 
 seems to change about us when we see an improvement in a be- 
 loved patient ! As the favourable symptoms increased, Albert's 
 countenance resumed a more natural expression ; his sufferings 
 diminished ; he looked serene and almost cheerful. The perspi- 
 ration lasted till one o'clock in the morning. When it began to 
 abate, preparations were made to remove him into another bed, 
 and he had scarcely been placed in it, before he fell into a refresh- 
 ing sleep, which lasted till morning. 
 
 ' I had written to Fernand at the outset of Albert's illness, 
 leaving it to him to come or not, as he wished, and this morning 
 he arrived at full speed. I was very glad to have him, and Albert 
 was pleased. I dare not dwell for the present on the difficulties 
 that may arise. Good Miss McCarthy goes away to-morrow, 
 quite knocked up, and we shall feel her loss sadly, though she 
 has pretty well taught me to be a good nurse. And I have got a 
 servant ! Why should I not indulge myself whilst fortune smiles 
 upon us ? * This expense was necessary, and therefore not un- 
 reasonable. I must send Albert to Ems, where he will find friends. 
 We shall have to spend plenty of money, and be too happy to 
 have only that to complain of. But meanwhile some other plans 
 may come into my head, and in that case I will act upon them, 
 presuming on your approval. 
 
 * Dear Albertine, these cares and trials oppress and disturb 
 me, but at the same time they call forth an energy which I 
 thought I had lost, and I feel I shall have strength to bear a 
 great deal more yet without giving way. Do not be anxious 
 about my health. I fancied myself enfeebled in body and de- 
 pressed in mind, but on the contrary, though I have led a trying 
 
 * The reader will recollect that it was barely three years since M. de la 
 Ferronnays was French ambassador at Eome, and accustomed to eveiy luxury 
 of an affluent position. 
 
54 A STSTER'S STORY. 
 
 life since we parted, I have not for a long time felt so well. 
 Happiness dulled my powers, but suffering revives me. 
 
 ' Let me hear about the girls. I am pining for news about 
 them. Tell me if they are looking well and blooming. Oh, do 
 beg of them not to be ill. It is so dreadful to see one's children 
 suffer ! It is only then that we feel how much we love them. 
 Would that I could always suffer every pain instead of them, and 
 guard them from every sorrow. 
 
 ' You will remind me that we may soon not have a place where 
 to lay our heads. I can only reply, " God will provide." He 
 knows it is not through any fault of mine that we are so situ- 
 ated. He is able and wilHng to assist us, and will no doubt 
 do so when we have no other help to turn to. Good-bye, my 
 dear and most beloved wife. Get back to me as soon as possible, 
 for without you I am not worth a straw. Kiss, not once, but a 
 thousand times, my darling Pauline, and my Jane,* Charlie, his 
 pretty Emma, and all our dear ones, and love me, if you can, as 
 much as I love you.' 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 ' Civita Vecehia : May 12th, 1833. 
 
 ' Albert is going on well. His recovery must be slow, but 
 there are no bad symptoms, and the fever has quite subsided. 
 He will not be allowed to get up for some days. We cannot be 
 too careful. It is delightful to see Fernand's devotion to his 
 brother. If I can possibly send Albert to Ems, I will do so, not 
 only for the sake of his health, but also to make him happy, and 
 to turn his mind from the gloomy thoughts he indulges when 
 away from Alexandrine. I know what comments this will give 
 rise to, but after all, what does it signify ? Having gone so far 
 in this matter, it will be hard that it should not end as they both 
 wish. We must make up our minds to it. They will be poor, of 
 course, but they will also enjoy some years of happiness, and I 
 do not think you will take a sterner view of the subject than I 
 do. It is quite certain that as long as they are both free,; neither 
 one nor the other will marry any one else. Why, then, should they 
 be condemned to wither apart, spending life in endless regrets ? 
 I have therefore resolved, if you do not object to it, to enable 
 Albert to go and take the waters at Ems.f 
 
 ' I have only just received your letter from Leghorn. Poor 
 darlings, how ignorant you were of our anxieties, when you spoke 
 of sending back Albert to me from Paris ! The doctors say, and 
 
 * Eugenie. 
 t This plan was unfortunately given up, the doctors having subsequently 
 decided that the waters were not necessary for Albert. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 65 
 
 I am inclined to believe it, that so sharp an illness at the age of 
 one-and-twenty, will serve to establish his health, and that he 
 will be a great deal stronger than before. Poor dear boy ! It 
 would grieve you to see him looking so tall, thin, and pale; 
 nevertheless, I rejoice to see him pale. He was anything but 
 pale three days ago. I shall never forget his crimson face and 
 sparkling eyes. Oh, dearest, I feel nothing but happiness to- 
 day ! Do you, who know so well how, return thanks to God for 
 yourself and for me, and implore Him to afflict me in any other 
 way rather than through my children's sufferings. Our little 
 girls' letters brought tears into my eyes. I like to hear them say 
 they cannot do without me, and yet it saddens me too, for by this 
 time they ought to have had other protectors than their father. 
 Give them a thousand kisses. I shall write to them as soon as I 
 can. Their letters do me a world of good, but do not tell them 
 to write. Let them do so when they are inclined. Good-bye, my 
 beloved wife. Best love to all.' 
 
 FEOM THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 ' Civita Vecchia : May 14th. 
 
 * My dear "Wife, — I am just come back from Rome, where I 
 have been spending a day and a night. This is the best proof I 
 can give you of Albert's improved condition. The doctors are quite 
 surprised at his rapid recovery. During my absence he was left 
 in Fernand's charge, who is a stricter gaoler than myself, and 
 obeys orders with scrupulous exactness. He is a capital nurse. 
 It is charming to see him with his brother. He amuses him, 
 makes him laugh, and pets him like a child. He has had his 
 bed put alongside Albert's, and when I came back to-night, I 
 found them both fast asleep. 
 
 ' You must have had an enchanting passage from Genoa, with 
 the view of the Riviera, and the mountains in the background in 
 sight the whole of the day. All that bright, grand, luxuriant 
 country forms a marked contrast to the barren and desolate coast 
 of Provence, with its dull grey colouring, and ugly mountain 
 line. This is by no means pleasant to our French feelings, and 
 we have need to call to mind the poet's words — 
 
 A tous les cceurs bien n^s, que la patrie est chfere ! 
 
 not to experience something like disappointment in approaching 
 the coast of France. 
 
 ' For the next four months the past days will be the only ones 
 which will enable me to get through the others. My only interest 
 will be your letters. Now that my fears about Albert are at an 
 
56 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 end, I begin to be a little alarmed at the heavy expenses I have 
 incurred, and still shall have to meet. My little fund at Naples 
 will be well-nigh exhausted in a month. But when I think of the 
 escape we have had, I can do nothing but thank and bless God, 
 Who has spared me the greatest of sorrows, and only tries me 
 with regard to money matters. He will provide. Kiss my beloved 
 darlings for me.' 
 
 CONTINUATION OF ALEXANDRINE* S JOURNAL. 
 
 * After travelling all night, we arrived on Wednesday evening, 
 the 1st of May, in Rome, through that enchanting Lateran Gate. 
 My affection for my good and pious Albert made me look upon 
 Rome in a new light, and it was pleasant to be once more in the 
 holy city which he loved so well, and where our love had begun. 
 We drove to Serny's Hotel. From our windows I could see our 
 old abode, the Casa Margherita, and the French Academy bril- 
 liantly lighted up. All these places had now a peculiar charm 
 for me, and what I cared little about before now became precious 
 in my eyes. The next day (the 2nd of May) I went to see the 
 
 M s. When I found myself in their room a strange sense of 
 
 the changes that happen in life seized me. Everything concern- 
 ing myself had so altered since I was last with them. I was very 
 
 glad to hear from M that I was looking younger, and that 
 
 my complexion was much improved. She spoke of Albert, but 
 this embarrassed me. I liked better to talk of him with Malte 
 Putbus, who knew all about our affairs, and took an interest in 
 them, 
 
 * In the night of May the 3rd, I had so fearful a dream that as 
 soon as I was up I went to Mamma, who was in bed, to tell her 
 of it. It had seemed to me that I was with Albert and Mamma 
 on the edge of a deep hollow, which was filled with a number of 
 graves with Crosses upon them. Albert said to me, " Have you 
 the courage to walk amongst all those Crosses ? " I felt strangely 
 frightened, but answered interiorly, " Since he asks me to do so, 
 I will." Then I took Mamma's hand and went down with her 
 amongst the graves, from whence I could see Albert standing 
 above us. I felt glad to have had the courage to do in my dream 
 what I had shrunk from till Albert proposed it, I said to Mamma 
 that I was afraid this dream was a bad omen, and this led us to 
 speak of Albert. She told me that in her opinion the state of 
 his health would be a sufficient objection to our marriage, even if 
 no other hindrances existed. But this I would never allow. 
 
 ' On the same day I went to the Villa Pamphili with the 
 M s. How many pleasant thoughts of the past, and at that 
 
A SISTEE'S STORY. 67 
 
 moment of the future also, it brought to my mind ! A few hours 
 
 later, after dinner at the M s, I remarked that Count Maurice 
 
 Putbus had left the room, and some one told me he had been 
 fetched out. He came back and spoke to Mamma, who looked 
 agitated, and I suspected that something had happened which 
 they were keeping fr'om me. I heard, or thought I heard, the 
 words, "French vessel." Immediately, the thought of an accident 
 at sea crossed my mind. My mother got up, and we went away. 
 She would not say anything till we were alone, but in the car- 
 riage she told me that Albert was ill at Civita Yecchia, and that 
 his father had come to Rome to fetch a physician. At first I 
 felt a sort of relief, for I had dreaded something worse. But 
 shortly afterwards a terror seized me that my mother had not told 
 me the whole truth. I knew that M. de la Ferronnajs wa« in 
 the same hotel with us, and I was dying to see him ; but by a 
 series of misunderstandings the evening passed without our 
 meeting. When I was left alone, quite in despair, I wrote to 
 Pauline the following lines, not that I thought of sending them, 
 but only because I had no one else to speak to : 
 
 * " Pauline, I am too wretched. I write to you because I have 
 no one here to whom I can pour out my anguish. Oh, why are 
 you not here ? And only imagine that in this moment of dread- 
 ful anxiety. Mamma has just told me that she may perhaps feel 
 herself bound in duty not to let me marry a man whose health is 
 so failing ; when I know that it is grief that kills him, and that 
 nothing but happiness can do him good. 
 
 ' " I my God, I do not ask Thee to take my life, for that 
 would make him miserable, but in any other way let me suffer 
 everything Thou wilt, in soul and body, and let him be happy for 
 a very longtime on earth, for the sake of our Lord Jesus Christ. 
 Pauline, I shall go out of my mind ! May God help me, and not 
 punish me for my too great love for Albert ! " 
 
 ' Every time that my mother tried to convince me how terrible 
 it would be to see my husband ill, and that it would be worse 
 then than now, I answered : " Oh ! no, if I were his wife, I could 
 nurse him myself, and that would lessen the suffering ! " I said 
 this so earnestly that it made Mamma for the first time under- 
 stand the strength of my feelings for Albert, and from that mo- 
 ment she resolved to do all she could to forward our marriage. 
 She told us this afterwards. Albert's father, also, during his ill- 
 ness, became convinced of the depth of our attachment, and we 
 have often said to each other that to this illness we were indebted 
 for our marriage and all our happiness. This was true, but, alas ! 
 we were nut aware at that time of the fatal results it left behind 
 it, and which only manifested themselves long afterwards. I had 
 
58 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 news that same day of Eugenie and Pauline from their father, 
 and he gave me also my little book of thoughts which I had left 
 with Albert. At the time when his breathing was so oppressed 
 that he could hardly speak, he said to Eugenie : " Look in the 
 vessel for Alex's little book. You will find it on my bed, and 
 also the cushion she worked for me. Take care of them both." 
 Eugenie gave the book to her father, who was seeing them off, 
 under the idea that it would be immediately returned to Albert ; 
 but when M. de la Ferronnays got back to the hotel he found his 
 son almost at death's door. From the window that poor father 
 happened to catch sight of the vanishing steamer, and he felt as 
 if he would have liked to cry out: "Albert is dying! Come back! 
 come back ! " The sight of my little book filled me with sorrow- 
 ful surprise. Albert was to have kept it till we met again. Had 
 he been conscious he would never have parted with it. 
 
 ' The Abbe Martin came to see us. Mamma told him of Al- 
 bert's illness, and he was so grieved that I felt a greater regard 
 for him than ever, although even before I knew him I had looked 
 upon him as a friend. If I could have spoken to him alone that 
 day, I think I should have opened my heart to him, and told him 
 how much I loved Albert and Albert's religion. If, indeed, he 
 did not know it already. He must have seen my eyes full of 
 tears, for I had no wish to hide them from him. I was gifted at 
 that time with extraordinary calmness, and a firmness and cour- 
 age which had not hitherto belonged to my character, so that I 
 did not care for the remarks and opposition of the world. I felt 
 sure of Albert's love, and of mine for him ; and certain that ours 
 was a right kind of love. When M, de la Ferronnays returned 
 to Civita Vecchia, taking with him M. Sauvan, Prince Lapouk- 
 hyn's physician. Mamma and I went wdth him to the top of the 
 staircase to bid him goodbye. What a parting it was. Would 
 Albert be alive the next time we should meet ! 'Not knowing 
 how to express what I felt, I kissed his hand. In the afternoon 
 I went to the Trinita da Monte with Mamma, to see Olga and 
 Albertine. That was also a spot full of sweet, sad recollections. 
 Olga came to us in tears. Whilst Mamma was trying to comfort 
 her about Albert, I took one of the nuns aside, and gave her an 
 alms for the poor, begging her to get prayers for the brother of 
 these poor children. 
 
 ' Prince Lapoukhyn was in the same hotel with us. His room 
 was near mine, and he told me never to scruple sending for him 
 if I felt too anxious. I did not do that, but sometimes very late, 
 before I went to bed, I used to speak to him through the door, 
 and say, "WTiat do you think of him ? He was better, you know? 
 Sauvan will do him good." I wanted to hear from somebody 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 69 
 
 words of hope. Oh, those nights ! If there is one thing more 
 terrible than the sickness and death of those we love, it is to be 
 absent from them at the time. Sometimes the thought would 
 flash across me that at that very moment Albert was dying. 
 Nevertheless the hoars of anguish which I spent on my knees at 
 the open window were more bearable than those which T dragged 
 out in the company of others, and obliged to exercise self-control. 
 Yet on those nights the very splendour of the stars seemed to me 
 ominous ; those gleaming orbs, the sight of which used always to 
 soothe me, now appeared to threaten evil. The whole world 
 would be so dreadful if Albert were to die ! Once again, in my 
 after life, one terrible night, the moon had the same ghastly effect 
 upon me. I do not know if my heart quite acquiesced in the 
 prayer my lips uttered, but I know I kept repeating, with all the 
 strength of my will : " My God, Thy will be done ! " Once when 
 I was thus praying in one of those moments of bitterest grief, I 
 was suddenly filled with an irrepressible joy. I felt certain I 
 should see Albert alive, and that we should once more be glad. 
 Then the stars shone again as brightly as of old, and everything 
 spoke of delightful happiness to come. Fearing to. lose this joy- 
 ful feeling, I went at once to bed, that my last thoughts might be 
 impressed with it. 
 
 ' We went to the Trinita again to see the two children. It 
 was the time I liked best in the day. As we went in I heard 
 at a distance the singing of hymns to the Blessed Virgin. When 
 we came home we found better news from Civita Vecchia. They 
 told us that the Princess Zen aide Wolkonsky had called whilst 
 we were out, and had waited some time for us. I found a bit of 
 paper on which she had been scribbling these words, written 
 over and over again : " La speranza non si deve mai aMandonare.^* 
 I felt glad, for at that moment the least trifle seemed to influence 
 me. 
 
 ' May 6th. — We dined with Princess Wolkonsky at her villa 
 near the Lateran. How sadly I gazed on the beautiful Roman 
 Campagna ! Yet I was not without hope. When we returned 
 in f-he evening we found M. Sauvan, who brought us a better ac- 
 count. But Albert has been so dreadfully ill that he cannot be 
 brought to Rome in less than a week's time at the soonest, and 
 so the small hopes I had of seeing him vanished. I wrote the 
 same evening to Pauline and Eugenie, but without letting them 
 know the whole extent of what I had feared and suffered : 
 
 ' " My dear Friends, — " May the joy I felt last night continue 
 and increase ! Till this morning I had some little hope of re- 
 
 * ' We must never give up hoping.' 
 
60 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 maining here until after Albert's arrival, but it now seems 
 decided that we leave the day after to-morrow. If he is but 
 well, I do not care. I have learnt to endure absen(;e. Grod's 
 will be done ! All He does is well done. I should indeed be 
 ungrateful if I were to murmur now, when, notwithstanding all 
 I have gone through, He has made me a hundred times, nay a 
 thousand times happier than I deserve." 
 
 'That same day Femand unexpectedly walked in. He had 
 ridden the whole way from Naples, and was on his way to Civita 
 Vecchia, to help nurse his brother. Soon after his arrival I went 
 with him to the Trinita to see his sisters. Whilst waiting for 
 them we went into the Church, where I had often been with 
 Albert to hear the exquisite singing. It was a great comfort to 
 pray with Fern and for Albert, and to pray on my knees. It 
 pained me so much not to be always able to do this. 
 
 ' When Olga came to us she looked quite surprised at seeing 
 Fernand, and said : " Oh, is it you, Femand ? I thought it 
 must be Charles and Emma, for they told us that M. and Madame 
 de la Ferronnays were here." This made us smile, and I thought 
 it a good omen. After dinner Fernand sat down on the sofa by 
 m.y side, to arrange about a letter to Albert, which he was to 
 give him as soon as he was well enough to read it. This was my 
 note: 
 
 * " It is hardly necessary that I should write to you ! but it 
 will give you pleasure to see my handwriting, and perhaps what 
 I shall tell you may be a comfort. I am sure I need not say that 
 I love you, my beloved Albert, and that I think 1 have never 
 loved, and certainly never will love, any but you. I can endure 
 our separation when I am certain you are well, but for God's 
 sake try as much as you can to recover. Do try to spare me 
 such terrible anxiety. Take care of yourself, as you would wish 
 to take care of me. If you love me, follow the advice of your 
 friends. It is better to be too prudent than not to be prudent 
 enough. Thank God a thousand times that you are really better! 
 To-morrow evening Fernand will send us an account of you to 
 Viterbo. God grant it may be a good one. Have you heard 
 that the waters of Ems are prescribed for you ? You must not 
 make any objection to this plan, indeed you must try to promote 
 it, for Ems is only one day's distance from Kissingen, where we 
 are going, and in this way we might meet in about seven weeks. 
 Only think, dearest Albert, how pleasant that would be ! Oh, 
 yes ; I think God loves us. I feel a little distressed at writing 
 to you before everybody. Well, never mind. What I meant to 
 say is this ; if you wish me to do anything in the world for you 
 
A SISTEE'S STORY. 61 
 
 whicli I can do, be sure I will do it ; of course I do not mean 
 anything wrong. If this promise can give you pleasure, bear it 
 always in mind. Farewell, beloved friend. Let us beg of God 
 to look on us with mercy, and promise Him to be as good as 
 possible. May we soon meet again with His help Who orders all 
 things for the best. Al — ." 
 
 ' I found this note, and all those I have ever written to Albert, 
 in a little pocket-book which he always carried about him. To- 
 gether with these were his First Communion ribbon, a prayer his 
 mother had sewed in the lining, and a relic of St. Alphonsus 
 Liguori. At eleven o'clock in the morning of the 7th of May, 
 Fern and went on to Civita Vecchia. He took leave of me with 
 the most brotherly affection, and I felt myself thoroughly his 
 sister. He understood all we felt so well, and in a few hours he 
 was to see Albert ! And when should I see him again ? I kept 
 saying this to myself as I took leave of Fernand. What a sepa- 
 ration it was ! and not a creature to whom I could tell my 
 thoughts ! 
 
 ' I was a little comforted, however, by Fernand's visit, and at 
 thinking he was with him, and that he would give him my letter. 
 The next day we left Rome, and slept at Viterbo. There I heard 
 of a young man who had died, and was lying in the church close 
 to the Inn. It made me sorrowful. I could not bear anything 
 which suggested the idea that Albert might die. Such was my 
 folly at that time. I believed indeed in Heaven, but cared only 
 for earthly joys. Our letters were brought to us early the next 
 morning, and the accounts, thanks to God, were good.' 
 
 Albert recovered rapidly. A fortnight after Alexandrine's 
 departure he was at home, almost quite weU again, and wrote 
 thence the following letter to his mother : 
 
 ALBERT TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 'At last, my dearest mother, I am allowed to write a few 
 words to you. I can hardly believe yet in all that has happened. 
 You are at Dangu, and I am here in Rome again ! 
 
 ' It is certainly very strange !   The sad part of the affair is 
 the anxiety I have given my dear father. One half hour more of 
 that fever, I am told, would have prevented my ever seeing you 
 again. Does it not seem incredible, dearest mother ? For my 
 own part, I had not the least notion of it. The minutes went by, 
 and I took no notice of them. That week when I was so ill I 
 felt strangely without pain. I may have forgotten my sufferings, 
 
 Of 
 
 THE 
 
 ^N'VERs/ry 
 
62 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 but I certainly am not conscious of them when I look back, and 
 I was on the point of departing from this life with little previous 
 expectation of it. God has mercifully delayed a departure for 
 which I was ill-prepared. But He has shown me that we ought 
 to be ready at any moment to obey His summons. I thank Him 
 with all my heart for this knowledge. I am going to spend the 
 summer quite quietly with my dearest father and ray good 
 Fernand, but longing, pining for you to come back. Do not 
 keep us waiting too long. Do all come very soon, Emma and 
 Charles included. Tell them that although I am bad about 
 writing, I love them nevertheless, with all my heart. Good-bye, 
 my darling mother. I love you more than I can express. Oh, 
 why am I not with you and my dear sisters ! Write to me as 
 often as you can, and love me always. ' Your Albert.' 
 
 FEOM MY FATHER TO MY MOTHER. 
 
 * Absurd as it may seem, I have not time to write to you to-day 
 more than a few words. Albert has borne perfectly well our 
 journey of eight hours. He has not coughed once, and does not 
 seem at all tired. I have given him leave to write to you a short 
 letter. I think he is going on very well. There could not have 
 been a more rapid and satisfactory recovery. Now what we have 
 to avoid is imprudence, and this is no easy matter. It is on this 
 account I do not leave him. I hope he will continue to be as 
 good and tractable as at present. He is as excellent a creature 
 as ever lived. The children are charming, and getting on beau- 
 tifully. Good-bye, my dearest wife. I will write you a real letter 
 the day after to-morrow.' 
 
 ALBERT TO M. DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 •Eome: May 30tli, 1833. 
 
 ' Well, my dear kind friend, we make plans, and God overrules 
 them. I expected that by this time we should have met and 
 spent many happy days together. Instead of which, I am at 
 Rome for a short time, and then I go to Castellamare.with my 
 father and Fernand. I have been neither more nor less than 
 dying. A few more minutes, and it would have been all over with 
 me. God has ordained it otherwise. So much the better. But 
 when shall we meet again ? Do write often. I fear our friend- 
 ship will have to stand the test of a prolonged absence. I have 
 not heard from you for ages. I am allowed to write very little at 
 a time. Is it true, as M, Bunsen tells us, that dear Rio is about 
 to marry a wealthy and amiable English lady ? I hope it is so, 
 and that he will be as happy as he deserves to be. 
 
 ' And you, dear friend, what are you doing with yourself ? If 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. C8 
 
 only you would not keep so much aloof, and control your imagi- 
 nation, which makes you see things differently from what they 
 are, and aim at impossible results. Do not suppose that when I 
 accuse you of exaggeration, I allude at all to your affections and 
 feelings. No, I mean politics, which wear your life out. For my 
 own part, I honestly confess that I have no decided political 
 opinions, for I nowhere see perfect prosperity or perfect tran- 
 quilHty. The worst of it is that we live in a period of transition, 
 and have by no means emptied our cup to the dregs. I comfort 
 myself with the thought that religion, the foundation of all happi- 
 ness, can never perish, and that in these trying times it alone 
 seems fated to triumph over all its enemies. With regard to 
 political parties, I look with sorrow and something of contempt 
 on their virulent animosities, and the insults and anathemas which 
 they hurl at each other. To what results do those loud vocifera- 
 tions, those miserable intrigues tend? The Revolution in the 
 midst of which we live will run its course if left to itself. There 
 is but one line I can take ; but I will own to you that even in 
 that quarter also the future seems to me pregnant with storms. 
 A dynasty which has been three times overthrown has, I fear, 
 served its time. I acknowledge that there alone exists the right- 
 ful claim ; but will a child brought up out of France, and with 
 ideas opposed to those of the present century, secure to us what 
 we want ? I have misgivings on that point. We must be patient ; 
 we cannot see into futurity. Possibly that last remaining vestige 
 of the old principle of authority is destined to raise us from our 
 present state of anarchy. In the meantime, religion flourishes, 
 and if we are fated to see a new restoration, God grant that our 
 clergy may not make themselves subservient to the Government. 
 The people with us are always apt to mistrust those in power, and 
 to look upon priests with suspicion^ if they unite themselves too 
 closely with them. I hope our clergy will give up politics. They 
 have surely a higher mission. 
 
 ' I dare say I have written many foolish things, for which you 
 will perhaps severely condemn me. Well, I can only wait, and 
 hope that God will guide me. Of one thing I am certain, and 
 that is, that I will never go against my conscience. So come 
 what may, I am prepared. 
 
 ' Good-bye. Write to me at Naples. Tell me about Rio ; we 
 have both been negligent about writing, but he knows my friend- 
 ship for him is unchanged. As to you, I love you more dearly 
 than ever. Let me know your plans for the winter. 
 
 * Albert.' 
 
A SISTERS STORY. 
 
 ALBERT TO OLGA. 
 
 * My darling Sister, — My father is too busy to write to yon 
 ' before the post goes out, and has asked me to send you not only a 
 letter, but also a kiss, and I execute his orders on my own account 
 as well as his. This . . . Do not puzzle over that word. I had 
 begun a sentence ; my father came in to speak to me, and I have 
 forgotten what I was going to write. It does not matter. My 
 father desires me to say that a M. Guillet or Guillot will call on 
 you one of these days to look at your eyes.* He will examine 
 them, and then will write to my father what ought to be done. 
 Show this letter to Madame de Coriolis, that the person may be 
 permitted to see you. And now I must tell you about ourselves 
 at Castellamare. My father and I live like hermits. Fernand 
 goes out a little more. He is, however, often at home, and then 
 we talk of nothing but our absent friends, and very often of our 
 little Olga. " When shall we see them again ? What a day that 
 will be ! How we shall hug one another ! How delightful it will 
 
 * Olga's eyes had beea weak since the age of eight years. This trial proved 
 very profitable to her soul, for on every occasion she offered up to Grod without 
 a murmur the privations it entailed. She delighted in reading and study, and 
 was peciiliarly gifted with the tastes which make a person enjoy the beauties 
 of nature and art. In these respects she had to make daily and hourly sacrifices. 
 I do not know how oculists describe the visual defect she suffered from. Too 
 much light deprived her of sight. When in a room moderately lighted, or out of 
 doors on a dull day, she saw very tolerably ; but the moment the sun began to 
 shine it dazzled her, and she could discern nothing. It is incredible to how many 
 disappointments this infirmity subjected her. Sometimes in a picture gallery a 
 ray of light would fall on some of the best paintings, and hide them completely 
 from her siglit. Or in a walk ta,ken for the express purpose of enjoying some 
 beautiful view, the sudden brightening of the sky would bring on the inability to 
 see it. In Church sometimes we used to see her quietly shut her book without 
 a shadow of impatience, and begin to think, as she used to say, instead of read- 
 ing. No doubt it was partly owing to this circumstance that she possessed a 
 more reflective mind, and a greater depth of thought and feeling at the age of 
 sixteen, than are often found in girls of that age. Amongst a hundred other 
 occasions when I was struck by her gentleness and resignation, I particularly re- 
 member one day in 1840, at Naples (she was then seventeen years of age), 
 when we went together to look at the procession of Corpus Christi, which was 
 passing through the Strada di Toledo. Whilst we walked in the shade in the 
 Chiaja she saw perfectly, and we were conversing gaily. We stopped at the 
 corner of the street, and after we had waited a few minutes the procession went 
 by ; but Olga only heard the singing, for the reflection of the light on the ban- 
 ners and the arms of the soldiers entirely prevented her from seeing. She was 
 silent for a few minutes, and then turning to me said : ' I have seen nothing, 
 but it does not make me sad. On the contrary, I thought just now quite with 
 joy, how many beautiful sights Grod would let me see in Paradise, to make up 
 fur the pleasure I lose on earth.' Dear sweet little sister, what great examples 
 she gave us, and how many wise words fell from her young lips ! 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 65 
 
 be to meet after four montlis' absence," and so on. My dearest 
 sister, do not forget your poor old Albert in your prayers. The 
 happiest day in your life is drawing near ; all your petitions will 
 then be heard. Pray for us all. God will grant you whatever 
 you ask. This is a Very short letter, but I cannot write long 
 without fatigue. I shall often write to you, but send your answers 
 to my father, for your letters do him good, and add a little word 
 for me. In a very short time we shall all meet and be happy 
 together. ' Your loving brother, Albert.' 
 
 ALBERT TO ALEXANDRINE. 
 
 (Enclosed in a letter from Fernand.) 
 
 ' Dear dearest Love. — One word only to tell you how much 
 good your letter did me. If I were not afraid of talking nonsense, 
 I should say it had cured me. I am so surprised at not feeling 
 unhappy ; on the contrary, I am in good spirits and full of hope. 
 You seem to be near me ; it is almost as if you were -speaking. 
 You and I after all are one. No, I am not going to join you. We 
 must be patient. Time flies only too fast, and next winter we 
 shall meet. But I pray every day that if you could be really 
 happier with any one else, you should give me up. I have had 
 joy enough to last me my whole life, if only I can be certain you 
 are happy. I do not mean to say, however, that there is not some- 
 thing I should like better than that. Well, let us hope. God is 
 so good ! And I am sure it cannot have been for nothing that I 
 did not die at Civita Vecchia. , I take every care of myself, for 
 indeed I wish to see you again. Would your mother object to 
 these few lines ? I do not think she would. However, do just 
 as you think best. Tell me if I may continue to describe every- 
 thing I think and feel. My next letter will be for your dear 
 mother. It was only natural that I should begin with you. 
 Don't you think so ? I shall spend the summer with my dear 
 father and with Fernand. I can never feel any ennui, for you are 
 constantly present to me. Good-bye. This letter is short, but 
 you know well all that is in my heart. I love you, and God is 
 very good ! Let us hope. A.' 
 
 EUGENIE TO ALEXANDRINE. 
 
 ' I do pray so much for you : for you and for Pauline, for Pauline 
 and you, and so it goes on. I don't say anything about Albert, be- 
 cause Albert and you mean the same thing. God loves him : God 
 has saved him : God will bless him and you also. I have taken 
 again to my old favourite prayer, in which I beseech God to give 
 Pauline and you all my share of happiness in this world. This 
 
 F 
 
66 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 
 is not praying to be unhappy, for if my prayer was granted, I 
 should be perfectly content.' 
 
 Alexandrine answered : — 
 
 'May God reward and bless you, sweetest and dearest little 
 friend ! You are indeed asking for your own happiness when you 
 pray so fervently that Pauline and I may be happy, for certainly 
 what kind of joy could we find in life if you had not an equal 
 share of it ? ' 
 
 ALBERT TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Dearest Sister, — I have received your dear letter, and between 
 ourselves, I must tell you how much it touched me. It would have 
 made me vain if my heart had not been full of other thoughts. I 
 deeply feel the happiness of being so beloved by my family, but I 
 cannot understand it. Without any affectation of modesty, I really 
 do not see how I deserve it. Nevertheless, by all means cherish 
 your illusions. I am very glad you have them ! 
 
 ' I am sorry not to be with you. I am so calm, so hopeful, and 
 in such good spirits. Study, my dear ones, to acquire this sort of 
 tranquillity. Do not be afraid if the road is sometimes rough, a 
 brighter future lies before you. The last part of your letter gave 
 me pain, my dear Pauline. So my poor darling is again in a state 
 of agitation. "Why should they torment her on that subject now ? 
 Did not her mother tell her one day that she could understand a 
 woman's changing her religion for her husband's sake ? Was she 
 thinking of becoming a Greek ? Not a bit of it. But that is the 
 sort of way in which people speak who mistake opinion for faith. 
 In matters of opinion, early associations, and a thousand minor 
 considerations, may and should influence one, but where religion 
 is concerned, we are accountable to God alone for our thoughts 
 and actions, and He will not hold us guiltless if we resist the 
 voice of conscience, which he makes use of to discover to us our 
 errors, as well as our faults. Poor child ! While I am leading a 
 tranquil life, she is a prey to trouble. That is the worst^of it, for 
 otherwise I feel confident of the result. God watches over her, 
 and if she did not suffer, I should smile at her troubles. Tell her 
 not to torment herself, and to conquer all those fears, scruples, 
 misgivings, and miseries, which only serve to waste time. God 
 does not require us to make ourselves miserable, and nothing is 
 more injurious to the soul than agitation. Inward peace is what 
 we must seek. Tell her also that I love her as much as ever, and 
 perhaps still more than ever. I do not write because I should 
 not like my letters to be opened by others. Adieu. I love both 
 you and dear Eugenic with all my heart. When you write to my 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 67 
 
 poor darling, try to calm her as much as possible. Tell her to 
 trust and hope.' 
 
 Whilst this entire trust gave Albert perfect tranquillity, and 
 that we on our side were enjoying ourselves in France, poor 
 Alexandrine was undergoing many heartaches in Germany. As 
 long as they were at Naples, her good and gentle mother had 
 been- charmed with Albert's love for her daughter. She liked 
 him very much herself ; she was touched by his ardent affection, 
 and had done nothing to prevent matters coming to a crisis, 
 when she could have done so without making them really 
 unhappy. But no sooner did she find herself away from Italy, 
 separated from us, surrounded by her own relatives, and trans- 
 ported as it were, into another atmosphere, than other influences 
 began to tell upon her, and for a time she seemed to see nothing 
 but the disadvantages of a marriage to which she had all but 
 formally given her consent. She continually dwelt upon these 
 disadvantages, in a manner which gave Alexandrine exquisite 
 pain. Sometimes she objected to Albert's age ; sometimes to his 
 state of health ; sometimes to his want of fortune, and his having 
 no profession ; or else to his being French, the French not being 
 in good odour at that time with the Russian Emperor, whose 
 consent, notwithstanding his former kindness to my father, would 
 therefore be difEcult to obtain ; and as Alexandrine was one of 
 the Empress's Maids of Honour, she could not marry without 
 applying for it. Her friends all seemed impressed with these 
 objections, and none of them took into consideration her feelings, 
 which were looked upon as the result of a mere transient fancy. 
 Added to all the other difficulties, arose the crowning one of 
 difference of religion, which disturbed Madame d'Alopeus far 
 more in Germany than -it had done in Italy. On this subject, re- 
 garding which her friends and relatives most strongly upheld 
 her, she had the most painful discussions with Alexandrine. 
 Amongst these friends, the most adv^erse on this subject was 
 Mademoiselle Catiche de B , who has already been men- 
 tioned, a very good person, and quite devoted to Alexandrine 
 and her mother, but whose views were entirely founded on the 
 positive and material value of things. Considered in this light, 
 Albert appeared to her quite unworthy of the prize to which he 
 aspired, and Catiche used dreadfully to provoke Alexandrine by 
 seeming to think that it would be a great condescension on 
 her part to marry him. One day that she was mournfully 
 enumerating the long array of general officers, ambassadors, and 
 Russian and German princes, whom in her own mind she had 
 fixed upon as suitable candidates for Alexandrine's hand, she 
 
 f2 
 
68 A SISTER'S STOBY. 
 
 pathetically exclaimed, ' Ah, Sacha ! * You, who were nij pride ! * 
 This exclamation had amused Alexandrine, who told us of it in 
 one of her letters. We answered that if Albert made her 
 happy, we hoped Catiche would get over Alexandrine not being 
 her pride. Eugenie wrote to her also about that time : 
 
 ' Oh, Alexandrine, do love my dearest father, and own that it is 
 pleasant to have for one's friend a parent who understands and 
 takes an interest even in the most romantic feelings of youth. I 
 love him more dearly than ever. Love him also, dear Alex- 
 andrine, trust him, and take comfort, for you will find that all 
 will end well.' 
 
 Catiche was not an able controversialist, but she had a 
 wonderful knack at hitting on the worldly disadvantages Alex- 
 andrine would incur if she became a Catholic. She especially 
 dwelt on the Emperor's certain displeasure, expatiating on the 
 many ways in which it would exhibit itself, and blaming the infatu- 
 ation which made her dream of adding this second ofience to that 
 of marrying a Frenchman. These sort of remarks had little 
 effect upon Alexandrine, but a stronger and more powerful 
 obstacle than any arguments influenced her on this point. This 
 was her mother's opposition, and her intense fear of grieving her. 
 This dread continued so long to influence her, that she gave up on 
 that account the happiness which would have made her union 
 with Albert perfect, and she only received Communion with him 
 once, for the first and the last time. 
 
 It may have been the mysterious will of God that thus 
 ordained it. Perhaps, also, Alexandrine would have found 
 courage earlier to gladden her husband's heart, even at the cost 
 of causing pain to her mother, had it not been for her scrupulous 
 rectitude, which evinced itself in a conspicuous manner on this 
 important subject, and induced her to examine and weigh every 
 point at great length, and as long as she could to resist the 
 attraction she had always felt for the Catholic religion ; fearing 
 that it might be the result of fancy, or of her attachment to 
 Albert, both insufficient motives, she rightly judged, for changing 
 her religion. To these very excellent reasons was probably 
 joined — unconsciously to herself — a wish to delay the moment 
 when an entire conviction would irresistibly impel conscience to 
 take the final step, and when she would be obliged to choose be- 
 tween grieving her mother and offending God. Be that as it 
 may, her deliberation on that point was prolonged to a point 
 which seemed inexplicable to those who knew how she had in- 
 
 * Russian diminutive for Alexandrine, 
 
A SISTEE'S STORY. 
 
 clined to Catholicism — Albert's religion, and who subsequently 
 witnessed the overflowing joy and fervour of her conversion. 
 
 During her stay at Berlin, and while these discussions were 
 going on, she was therefore far from being a Catholic, but at the 
 same time nothing would induce her to promise never to become 
 one. This was indeed a promise which she would not have made 
 at any time of her life. These discussions were, however, most 
 trying to her, and she had few pleasant days during their travels. 
 Her journal at that time is filled with reminiscences of these 
 little troubles, cheered only by the prospect of a return to Italy 
 in the autumn, when we were all to meet again. The place she 
 liked best that summer was Boklet, which she thus describes : 
 
 'It is a quiet place, shut in by wooded hills, and from my 
 window I see beyond a pretty meadow, the road which we shall 
 travel — the road which is to me the road to Najoles.^ 
 
 There also she wrote as follows : — 
 
 ' I can do nothing but repeat the words, " My God ! My God ! " 
 My mind is confused; I am unable to collect my thoughts. 
 There are moments when I seem to doubt of everything I have 
 most firmly believed. I have suffered very much since I left you, 
 my dear friends. First there was the parting with you ; then all 
 the anguish at Rome and Florence ; then the long journey with- 
 out a word of news of Albert ; latterly all the heart-aches at 
 Berlin, and now the probability that after all I shall not spend 
 the winter with him. 
 
 ' I have, however, the consolation of feeling that our love is 
 always the same, and God is my witness that I am willing to 
 bear everything so that Albert is but happy ; only it must not be 
 at the expense of those I love so dearly. If God ordains that 
 we are never to be married, I pray that he may forget me, and by 
 a blameless inconsistency transfer his afiections to another with 
 whom he could be happy ; only let her be worthy of him. For 
 myself, I ask courage, that I may not weary others with my grief, 
 and perfect resignation to the Divine will, so that when I die I 
 may hope to meet in Heaven those I have loved so much on 
 earth. There is only one thing certain as regards my future fate. 
 I shall never marry any one but Albert, nor can I imagine that 
 he can ever forget me, or love another as he has loved me. We 
 have that in our natures which must, I think, unite us for time 
 and eternity. It is worth while to suffer in this world, if we 
 are to spend all eternity with those we love. And thank God 
 that blessed thought never leaves me. I want no joy which 
 does not come from God. If He sees that I deceive myself in this, 
 may he render this desire sincere, for His power is infinite. My 
 
70 A SISTEIi'S story: 
 
 God, reward my motlier, I beseech thee, for all she has done for 
 me. I shall not open this book again till we are settled for the 
 winter at — I dare not say — Naples.' 
 
 At Stuttgard, where they went next, the painful discussions 
 respecting Alexandrine's marriage were again renewed, and the 
 friends they met there laid the greatest stress on the fact that 
 Albert was not following any profession. Catiche, of course, re- 
 echoed all their objections, and whenever she was alone with 
 Alexandrine, harped on that point. Weaiy and provoked with 
 these continual remonstrances, Alexandrine vented her annoy- 
 ances in the following effusion, which she scribbled in the carriage 
 on the day they left Stuttgard : 
 
 ' I should like very much to know whether there will be pro- 
 fessions in Heaven ! and if general officers and cabinet ministers 
 will rank higher there than nameless people. After all, what 
 does earthly glory and dignity amount to ? Why do not people 
 seek to win a high post in Heaven ? They seem quite to forget 
 that in Heaven alone are to be found everlasting distinctions. A 
 profession, indeed ! I hate the very sound of the word ! To 
 defend one's country in case of need, I admit to be right; but 
 this is a remote contingency, and where is the good of wearing 
 out one's life in a round of mechanical duties, instead of devoting 
 it to the service of God ? It is all very well to say to a girl, 
 " Do not marry before you can be secure (if one can be secure of 
 anything on earth) that you will have enough to live upon." This 
 is all rational, prudent and kind, but that our respect and 
 our contempt should turn upon the possession of a little more or 
 a little less money is really an enormity which cries to Heaven for 
 vengeance. 
 
 ' My dear young lady (this is the language of the world) when 
 you meet with any one whom you are inclined to like, do not 
 take the trouble of ascertaining if he is good and high-principled. 
 Oh, dear no ! Provided he be not a thief, or has not committed 
 some gi^eat crime, that is enough. Do not indulge in high-flown 
 and ridiculous ideas of perfection. But be sure you inquire if he 
 has money enough to give you and your children the means of 
 indulging in all, and more than all, the superfluous luxuries of 
 life. If yoLi can make sure that this is the case, do not hesitate 
 to marry him ; you are sure to be happy. But if, on the contrary, 
 he has only a competency, then, altl>ough romantic people tell 
 you that his wife will be an enviable woman ; that his character 
 is the best safeguard for her happiness, that his religious prin- 
 ciples are excellent, and his habits so moderate that he is never 
 likely to run into foolish expenses, be sure you turn a deaf ear to 
 
A SISTER'S STOBY. 71 
 
 these absurd speeches, which betray an utter want of sense and 
 of the commonest knowledge of the world.' * 
 
 Alexandrine adds : 
 
 * After having thus vented my spleen, I felt quite relieved. All 
 discomfort between my mother and myself vanished, and I felt in 
 a mood to enjoy our journey, and the delightful thought which 
 from Frankfort onward had never left me, that every step on the 
 road was bringing me nearer to Albert.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE AND EUGENIE. 
 
 'Milan: September 10th. 
 
 ' My dear Friends, — Thank God, I am once more in Italy ! I 
 have crossed those terrible Alps which separated me from you. 
 I feel myself so close to you all, and more than ever I adore Italy. 
 We arrived here the day before yesterday. I asked if you had 
 stayed at this hotel, and learnt to my great satisfaction that you 
 had only left it three days ago. I hope, Pauhne, that you will 
 admit I have learnt to be easily pleased, since it was pleasure 
 enough to me to hear that I had missed you by three days ! I 
 could fill four pages with the account of what I felt on being told 
 that the Comtesse de la Ferronnays and her two daughters had 
 stayed in this very same house so lately, and that Monsieur le 
 Vicomte and his wife had lodged in the opposite house, because 
 there was no room for them here.' 
 
 ' Wednesday, September 1 1th. 
 
 ' The marionettes of Tiano, which we went to see, prevented my 
 finishing this letter yesterday, and to-day I went with Catiche to 
 the top of the cathedral. I will now try to explain to you why 
 the knowledge that you had been here gave me so much pleasure. 
 First, it was clear that you had safely crossed the Simplon. 
 Secondly, that you were in Italy, and that we should soon meet. 
 Lastly, you can understand that having been so long separated 
 from you, it was like a foretaste of your dear presence. It was 
 as if I had seen your shadow on the road before me. Do you 
 think me very absurd, or do you admire how cleverly I account 
 for not having been vexed at missing you when we could so easily 
 have met ? Oh, Pauline ! Oh, Eugenie ! I begin to feel such 
 delight, something so sunny in my heart, when I tliink I am 
 going to see you again, that I try to calm myself by the considera- 
 tion that some weeks must still elapse before we actually see each 
 other again. But I do not care about that now. God is really 
 
 * Alexandrine wrote on the margin of that page : ' This is only a paraphrase 
 of a favourite passage of mine in La Bruy^re.' 
 
72 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 too good to me. There is no cliance of our being at Naples 
 before the first of N^ovember. I shall be only too happy if we 
 reach it by that time. Well, we must be patient. What a 
 budget of trifling and important things we shall have to discuss, 
 and you, dear Pauline, shall condemn or acquit me, just as you 
 used to do. I am so curious to see Emma. My dear friends, in 
 spite of my good spirits my heart is very anxious, and my head 
 full of disquieting thoughts. Will my ideas ever be settled ? 
 Some day, in Heaven, I hope. Let Albert know about us. Oh, 
 how I love you all ! ' 
 
 We had, as she says, passed through Milan a few days before, 
 with my brother Charles and his wife, who were that year 
 returning with us to Naples. I do not remember why we 
 changed our route, but I know we went by Genoa and the 
 Simplon, instead of through Lyons and Mount Cenis as we 
 intended, and on account of our doing so, my mother missed all 
 the letters which had been sent her on the road, and thus we 
 reached Florence without the least idea of what had occurred in 
 the meantime, and expecting to meet my father in Rome. It was 
 the Princesse de Bouffremont who had told us, as soon as we had 
 arrived at the Hotel de I'Europe at Florence, that the Duchesse 
 de Berry was there, that she had sent for my father a fortnight 
 ago, and that three days afterwards he had gone to Prague on a 
 mission she had entrusted him with. On hearing this news my 
 mother determined to await his return at Florence. We saw the 
 Duchesse de Berry several times. She had just left Blaye, and 
 had with her Mademoiselle de Fauveau, whom I there saw for the 
 first time. We were much struck by her strange way of dressing, 
 her animated descriptions of the Vendee, her genius, eloquence, 
 and passionate admiration of mediaeval Italy. The charms of 
 her conversation whiled away the tedium of delay. 
 
 I left a letter at Florence for Alexandrine, who I knew would 
 arrive there, as at Milan, a few days after our departure, and with 
 it a bracelet and locket containing a piece of my hair. I told her 
 she might add anything to it she pleased. She did afterwards 
 mix some of Albert's hair with mine, and as it was exactly of the 
 same colour she was able to wear it openly without challenging 
 remark. In the same letter I said to her : ' While you are here, 
 go for my sake to the church of Santa Maria ISTovella. In the 
 first place, it is a curious and interesting Church. But do not go 
 to it only as others do, to look, but to think of Albert and me, and 
 to pray. It is his favourite Church.' At last my father returned. 
 I have no occasion to speak here of his mission, except so far as 
 to say that it succeeded, and that when he took leave of the 
 
A SISTER'S STOEY. 73 
 
 Ducliesse de Berry, she expressed in the most lively manner her 
 warm thanks and gratefal regard. 
 
 On the 20th of September we arrived at Rome, and the next 
 day Eugenie wrote as follows to Alexandrine : 
 
 ' Guess where we went this morning at six o'clock with my 
 mother. To the Scala Santa ! which we ascended on our knees 
 for yotc. We prayed very earnestly. May our prayers be 
 granted, beloved friend. It; gave us pleasure really to perform 
 the part of pilgrims. I tried hard to imitate their humility.' 
 
 Alexandrine, after copying this passage, added these words : 
 
 ' Oh, what sisters were waiting for me at Rome ! And what 
 fervent prayers have been offered up for me there ! First, my 
 Albert's most disinterested petitions. He had then no thought 
 of himself, and only offered up everything he could think of to 
 obtain my conversion. Then his mother and his sister's prayers ; 
 and, again, Olga's on the day of her First Communion. Well, 
 thank God, these prayers have been granted ! God gave me to 
 Albert, and Albert gave me to God ! ' 
 
 Olga made her First Communion on the 23rd of September, 
 and I will transcribe from my journal two or three passages I 
 wrote on that occasion. ' It was a rare privilege for Olga to make 
 her First Communion at Rome, but never did God's graces 
 descend on a soul more worthy to receive them. Religion 
 expands her mind and governs her imagination. Her most 
 habitual thoughts are spiritual ones, yet she is young, and child- 
 like for her age. And is not this precisely what God loves ? 
 After Benediction on the eve of the great day, one of the nuns 
 fetched us from the Church, and we went and kissed our dear little 
 sister, who was looking as calm and fair as an angel. We passed 
 through the beautiful cloisters, which were illuminated by the 
 most brilliant moonlight, and at home that evening we prepared 
 Olga's white veil and dress, and her crown of white roses. It was 
 a sweet employment, and on the morrow of that day the angels 
 our darling loves and invokes so often, will have looked with 
 pleasure on the fair child ; for it was for God alone she was 
 adorued, and her beauty was holy as her young heart. 
 
 ' She and Albertine were to be confirmed before Mass, and as 
 I was Olga's god-mother, I knelt by her side all the time, which 
 I felt to be a great privilege. Cardinal Lambruschini officiated. 
 Nobody could have witnessed without emotion the scene in that 
 Chapel, and I hope God will give me grace to be always faithfal 
 to the resolutions I made that day at the foot of the altar, and to 
 bear in mind the touching words addressed to us, and the moment 
 
74 A SISTEE'8 STOBY. 
 
 when with Olga we all received Communion. The complete 
 union which existed between us, the quiet, silent thanksgiving 
 after Mass, and the peaceful, intense joy with which our little 
 sister embraced us as we came out of the Church, must ever live 
 in my remembrance. 
 
 ' At three o'clock we went again to the Church. Olga renewed 
 her baptismal vows with her hand on the Gospels, and afterwards, 
 in a clear, distinct, and calm voice, recited an act of consecration 
 in the Chapel of the Blessed Virgin. At half-past five solemn 
 Benediction was given, with the most melodious singing, and all 
 the accompaniments which help to raise our weak souls to the 
 highest pitch of devotion. 
 
 'A Catholic may well challenge the world to produce sights 
 equal in beauty to those his religion affords, or anything that 
 surpasses the feelings it inspires. Oh, how I blessed God that 
 day that I was born in His Church ! Thus ended this happy day. 
 
 ' On the following morning I prayed some time in the convent 
 Chapel, and then went into the garden, where I conversed some 
 time with the dear gentle Mere Olympe. The sun was setting 
 behind St. Peter's, the sky was bright, hot, and cloudless. It was 
 all very beautiful, and we talked of things which gladden the 
 upward glancing of the eye and heart. 
 
 * In the evening we returned to the Trinita to bring away my 
 sisters, who, though happy to come home again, were taking a 
 sorrowful and affectionate leave of the convent where they had 
 passed three happy months, and which to Olga especially was 
 endeared by holy recollections. The brightest moonlight lighted 
 up the cloisters as I went to give a last look at the Church. When 
 the doors of the convent closed behind us, it seemed to me as if 
 we were plunging once more into a sad and restless world, whilst 
 peace, joy, and everything which makes life sweet, were to be 
 found within those walls. I am convinced that a true religious 
 vocation is the greatest grace God can bestow on a soul : a fore- 
 taste on earth of the blessedness of Heaven.' 
 
 When I wrote these words in my journal, I had not the slightest 
 vocation for the religious life, but then and ever since I have 
 always thought that those whom God calls to live for Him alone 
 must be of all His creatures the happiest and most blest. 
 
 A few days after Olga's First Communion, we left Rome for 
 Naples, where we found Albert looking so well that it seemed as 
 if his health was completely re-established. We went back to 
 the same apartments we had lived in before, but that year it was 
 Charles and Emma, with their new-born baby, who occupied the 
 rooms Madame d'Alopeus had inhabited the preceding winter. 
 Now that she was married to Prince Lapoukhyn she required a 
 
A SISTER'S STOEY. 
 
 larger suite of rooms, and had therefore taken the house next to 
 ours. This was all we could desire, for Alexandrine w^as almost 
 as near to us as if we had been under the same roof. We hoped 
 they would have followed us to Naples as closely as had been 
 the case at Milan and at Florence, but as the following letter 
 will show, we liad to go through further anxieties and sorrows 
 before that long wished- for meeting actually took place. 
 
 'Florence: October lOth, 1833. 
 
 ' Dear Friends, — The famous papers have at last arrived, and 
 Mamma will be married on Sunday week, the 20th of October. 
 Pray very much for her. I am now so bewildered and hurried 
 that I feel as if I had scarcely anything else to say. Thank 
 Heaven, Mamma and the Prince seem very happy. Oh. 1 my 
 Grod, bless their marriage ! 
 
 ' I must say a word about myself, even in the midst of these 
 important solicitudes. My mother's letter to your father in- 
 creases my anxiety.* "Will you be grieved and disappointed at 
 its contents ? Will you wish now to draw back ? For God's 
 sake, dearest sisters, quiet my fears, if you can, and see if there 
 will not be time to write to me before the 20th. We shall 
 certainly not leave Florence till that day. Oh, do feel for 
 me, and tell me the real truth. I have a terrible weight on my 
 heart. People find me so altered in five months ; they say I am 
 grown thin and pale. You must expect to see me looking ugly. 
 I am so sorry ! I was in very low spirits a few days ago, but 
 Sauvan has done me good. You will see when I can speak to you 
 that my complaints are not exaggerated. Oh, dear 1 oh, dear ! 
 am I wrong ? am I to blame ? ' Nothing but the conviction that 
 it was Grod's will would alter my feelings towards you all. Good- 
 bye, my dear friends. When shall we meet again ? If you were 
 my own sisters, I could not love you more than I do. Do not 
 show this letter to Albert. It is too sad, too anxious. Do not 
 fret about me, but always love me. Au revoir, by God's help.' 
 
 Alexandrine then writes in her journal : — 
 
 * On the evening of that day, as Catiche and I were standing 
 at the window opposite to the church of San Gaetano, which had 
 struck me as gloomy the first time I had been at Florence, she 
 said, to my great surprise, that she should like to go into it for 
 
 * Madame d'Alopetis had written to M. de la Ferronnays to say that she had 
 not succeeded in making arrangements by which she had hoped to facilitate 
 Alexandrine's marriage. M. de Montalembert, who was travelling in Germany, 
 saw the letter at Frankfort, where it had been detained because the proper 
 postage had not been paid. Under the impression that it contained something 
 important to Albert, he paid what was necessary, and sent it on. 
 
76 A SISTEE'S STORY. 
 
 a moment. I wislied it m.ore than she did, and we slipped quietly 
 out of the house. Catiche wanted, I think, to pray for Mamma, 
 the last obstacle to whose marriage was removed by the arrival 
 of the papers from Russia. I joined to that prayer another in- 
 tention of my own. When our eyes became accustomed to the 
 darkness, and we could discern anything in that gloomy Church, 
 a coffin met our sight. This pained me, for my thoughts being 
 occupied with my mother's marriage and my own anxious wishes 
 about my future, I could not forbear asking myself whether this 
 was an omen, and to which of us it applied. Still it was some- 
 thing to pray there on my knees, for I did not mind Catiche, and, 
 indeed, was glad to see that she knelt also.' 
 
 ALBERT TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 * My dear Friend, — Here is a letter for Rio, who must be with 
 you, I think. If not, will you forward it to him ? I shall not 
 enter upon the question of which of us has been most to blame. 
 I like better to put off explanations until we meet, if indeed they 
 should be necessary. Letters are apt to create misunderstand- 
 ings, for an ill-worded sentence can easily convey a different 
 meaning from the one intended. At this moment let us dwell 
 only on our friendship, which nothing must change. We live at 
 a time when every one should rally round their standard, and 
 never let us forget that you and Rio and I fight under the same 
 banner. If union does not exist between those who meet at the 
 foot of the Cross, how will it fare with those who are not bound 
 by the same sacred tie ? ' 
 
 'October 16th. 
 'My dear Friend, — I began this letter a week ago. Do not 
 accuse me of idleness, I never felt a greater desire to write. Oh, 
 why are you not here ? The moment is drawing near when 
 uncertainty must cease, and I could almost wish to put off the 
 decisive hour ; for two years of unmixed happiness are perhaps 
 to be followed by a life-time of suffering. My father has received 
 a letter from Madame d'Alopeus. — [He relates the contents.] — 
 And I do not know what to expect. My confidence in the future 
 had been so great that I find it difficult to realise the probable 
 consequences of this blow ; and hope is so deeply rooted in my 
 heart that it can hardly entertain misgivings, much less despair. 
 I only feel anxious and harassed with thoughts which succeed 
 one another without any definite result. How could she live in 
 Russia ? You who know her can judge if that could ever be. 
 In a few days we shall have met and measured the streng-th of 
 the obstacles which threaten to separate us. I have not yet 
 
A SISTER'S STOBY. 77 
 
 taken in the idea of a final parting. I put down the thought 
 whenever it presents itself. Still, I shall be probably obliged to 
 leave N^aples, and in that case shall join you somewhere. Let me 
 know your plans, but do not alter them on my account. I am 
 not afraid of a cold climate. I might suffer less in the north 
 than I do here. Study will furnish me with the change of thought 
 1 need. The life we shall lead will be very quiet. The greatest 
 support to me under such a trial would be your society. My 
 poor darling would find the same comfort in my sisters ; but it is 
 impossible that the fair days of our happiness are thus to end. 
 To you I am not afraid of saying it : I do not think that God 
 inetnds to inflict this blow upon us. He is only trying us. 
 
 ' I am weary, and I do not know what to think, what to hope. 
 I could joyfully endure her absence, if I foresaw the end of it, 
 or if I only knew that she would be surrounded with loving 
 friends. But alone, and in Russia ! Oh, God forbid ! — My head 
 is splitting, and I feel that I am writing a most absurd letter. 
 What will have happened by the time it reaches you ? I had so 
 longed for something decisive, and now my heart sinks within 
 me at the beginning of each day. Farewell, my dear friend. I 
 can, at all events, look forward to the joy of seeing you again.' 
 
 Whilst Albert was thus pouring forth his feelings to his friend, 
 Alexandrine was writing in her journal these sorrowful, lines : — 
 
 ' Florence : October 7th, 1833. — My mind is oppressed by an in- 
 tolerable weight. I cannot imagine how things will turn out, 
 how difficulties can vanish, and malicious tongues be silenced. I 
 feel in a perfect labyrinth. I have strength enough to go against 
 the opinion of the world, and act in defiance of it, but not that 
 of despising its remarks. They throw me into a fever, they de- 
 stroy my peace, and I sometimes almost wish to die, for I fear 
 these incessant heartaches will deprive me of all energy, and then 
 I shall not make Albert happy.' 
 
 About this time I was writing from Naples the following letter 
 to Alexandrine : — 
 
 'Naples: October 7tli, 1833. 
 
 * Albert and I spend our days together; we have never before 
 conversed so much, and I love him more than ever. God gave 
 me a great blessing in such a brother. We talk of his sacred, 
 his holy love. He was saying to me the other day that when he 
 recapitulates the events of his life, he cannot but recognise such 
 special mercies towards him in the dealings of Providence, that he 
 can never be grateful enough. First he spoke of his leaving Naples 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 two years ago, and his retreat with M. Rio, in Tuscany ; of his 
 repentance, regret, and resolutions. Of all that time of improve- 
 ment and sanctification which preceded his arrival at Rome, 
 where he found his reward. Of the emotion and agitation which 
 ensued, and then of his happiness at the Vomero last winter ; 
 and lastly, of the calm and peace which now make him ready to 
 bear whatever God ordains. He is not afraid now of your mar- 
 rying anyone else, and is satisfied to leave himself and you in the 
 Hands of God. He has improved in every respect, and with all 
 his goodness and high principles, he finds means of pleasing per- 
 sons totally different from himself. He is so amiable and unaf- 
 fected, that everybody esteems and likes him. Albert has not 
 as much talent or information as his friend Charles de Monta- 
 lembert, but he is quite as intelligent, quite as enthusiastic in his 
 love for all that is good and beautiful, and possesses at the same 
 time greater gentleness of character, and of language, and man- 
 ners. In short, seeing what he is, you would be wrong to take 
 to heart the wretched criticisms which can touch neither him nor 
 you. Every day, moreover, his intellect acquires greater vigour 
 and scope, and I have no doubt that before many years have 
 elapsed, you will be as proud of the estimation in which he will 
 then be held by indifferent persons, as you now are pleased at 
 what his friends think of him. You live in a state of terrible 
 agitation, dearest Alex., but I am sure that in your heart there 
 ought to be peace. If only we could meet and talk ! However, 
 God will order all things, small and great, in our lives.' 
 
 This letter, which would perhaps have a little consoled Alex- 
 andrine, found her in bed, and not in a condition to read it. 
 Whether her previous state of agitation had been caused by latent 
 illness, or whether her illness was the result of all she had gone 
 through, it so happened that she fell dangerously ill. Her mo- 
 ther's wedding was postponed, and of course their departure also. 
 For some days her friends were much alarmed about her, and we 
 at a distance shared their painful anxieties. The eve of the day 
 when she became ill, Alexandrine wrote in her journal that Prince 
 Lapoukhyn had given a dinner-party, where they had met Count 
 Malte Putbas, who was passing through Florence, and who came 
 to take leave of them, and to wish all kinds of happiness to her 
 and her mother. They never saw him again. 
 
 Alexandrine speaks thus of her illness : — 
 
 ' On the following day my internal agitation had reached its 
 utmost limits. I told Catiche that there were moments in which 
 I felt as if I was going out of my mind. I was in this state 
 when I answered Lady D 's letter, who had spoken in a 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 79 
 
 somewliat offensive manner of my marriage, and I replied in a 
 way which seemed to set my head on fire. Immediately after- 
 wards I went to dinner, trying all the time to conceal my agita- 
 tion. I suppose this helped to make me ill. I could not open 
 my journal again till the '^7th. I had not written in it since the 
 15th. I was suffering terribly in my mind, and felt increasing 
 uneasiness in my body. A dentist had given me some opium to 
 put into a tooth, without telling me what it was. I used it too 
 freely, and had been swallowing some of it for several days. 
 This, together with my mental troubles, threw me into a high 
 fever, with dreadful headaches, and for seven days I was in bed, 
 making my poor mother, and all those about me, terribly anxious. 
 I was nursed and coaxed, and spoilt in every possible way. From 
 my bed I could see that gloomy church of San Gaetano, which 
 always makes me melancholy. But what I cared most about, 
 was the thought that my illness was delaying our return to 
 Naples.' 
 
 Alexandrine was recovering from this illness when she received 
 the following letter ; my answer to the one in which she spoke of 
 new difficulties having arisen, and said her mother had written 
 to my father a discouraging letter. Singularly enough, this letter 
 did not reach her till a fortnight after I sent it : — 
 
 * I will pray for your mother, dearest, on the day of her mar- 
 riage, and also for you, whom God will never forsake, however 
 long He may see fit to try you. My father and mother love you 
 exactly as they do their own children, and I am sure that their 
 anxiety and solicitude about you are such as they would feel 
 under the same circumstances for me. Your mother's letter was 
 rather the occasion than the cause of my father's saying what he 
 did on the subject. We all spent an unpleasant hour talking 
 over those prosaic, matter-of-fact, and hatefully indispensable 
 matters. My father said, " In their case we are not obliged to 
 make provision for luxuries, they are both so prudent." But 
 even taking this into account, dear Alex, he thought you would 
 have greater difficulties than you fancy. As to Albert, you know 
 how he shrinks from the idea of inflicting privations upon you. 
 But neither my father nor mother, nor any of us, despair of better 
 prospects : on the contrary, we have a sort of confidence that 
 all will end as we wish. For my part, I am convinced it will. 
 Indeed, when prudent thoughts are uppermost, my father never 
 looks to anything worse for you than waiting. The idea of 
 breaking off your engagement never entered into anybody's head. 
 It has not occurred to your mother, I trust. Tell me, dearest, if 
 I have grieved you. I write in fear, and almost in tears. The 
 
80 A SISTEB'S STORY. 
 
 short of the matter is, that there are difficulties, but at the same 
 tim.e, hopes which no difficulties can destroy. 
 
 ' God will help us, dearest sister. Leave everything in His 
 Hands, and remember that as long as the certainty of mutual 
 affection exists, there is no real cause, or at least any great cause, 
 for sorrow. Albert thinks so, too. Religion, poetry, and love, 
 are sweetening your lives, and if God chooses by a few more 
 trials to make you earn the joy of an endless union, take courage, 
 dear friends, and believe and hope. We shall soon meet and talk 
 this over. Oh, when will this month come to an end ! Let us fix 
 our eyes on Heaven, God will not lose sight of us. Our struggles, 
 anxieties, and sorrows, nothing we can do or suffer are lost. Do 
 not for a minute doubt that ,we shall one day be sisters, and pray 
 together in the same Churches.' 
 
 CONTINUATION OF ALEXANDRINE 's STORY. 
 
 * I have sometimes thought that God did not permit this letter 
 to reach me whilst I was ill. (By some strange accident it re- 
 mained lying at the post office.) It would probably have made 
 me worse. I could not help showing it to my mother, who was 
 rather anxious to know what effect her letter had produced, but 
 I was terribly afraid of her seeing those dear words : " we shall 
 pray in the same Churches." She did not take any notice of 
 them at the time, but she reminded me of them three years 
 afterwards. I read them again with Pauline also at Paris, in 
 June, ]836. 
 
 ' It was on the 29th of October, the eve of my mother's wedding 
 day, that I received Pauline's letter. I had been allowed for the 
 first time to go out in an open carriage. It gave me a thrill of 
 pleasure, and I wrote in my journal, "When we are young and 
 looking forward to a bright future, there is a peculiar charm in 
 the feeling of recovering from illness. A rosy hue seems spread 
 over the earth. When we recover from the malady of life ; when 
 we rise from the bed of our grave, how young we shall feel ! And 
 before us we shall see — not an uncertain and transient happiness, 
 but cloudless and eternal joys. Oh, my God, give me faith here 
 and Heaven hereafter ! " 
 
 ' The next day (the 30th of October) my mother was married 
 to Prince Lapoukhyn, first at the Greek Church and then at the 
 Protestant Chapel. I was still very weak, and hardly conscious 
 of my own thoughts. My lips quivered, and I could with diffi- 
 culty stand. I remember, however, that it crossed my mind 
 during the ceremony, that there would never be bridal joys or 
 bridal flowers for me ; and yet it seemed to me that they would 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 81 
 
 suit me better tlian my mother. My weakness made me melan- 
 choly. Still I must confess that I was very selfishly glad that 
 that important event which my illness had delayed, was at last 
 accomplished. 
 
 ' On the 31st of October we left Florence. Whilst the horses 
 were being put to, Mamma and Catiche slipped into the Church 
 of San Gaetano. They had not told me what they were about to 
 do, for fear of my wanting to go with them, and catching cold. 
 I. travelled in the large carriage with my mother's maid, and they 
 covered me with furs, though it was as hot as in summer at 
 home. I was so glad to be off to be getting nearer to Albert ! 
 All I wanted was to see him ; that he should not be gone before 
 I arrived, and then I cared but little for all the rest ; I felt as if 
 all other obstacles would vanish ! 
 
 ' The journey revived my strength. On Saturday, which was 
 All Souls Day, we arrived at Viterbo. My mother was so un- 
 well, that we thought we must have stayed there ; but the doctor 
 finding it difficult to procure the proper medicine, advised our 
 pushing on to Rome, where we accordingly arrived on the 3rd of 
 November. It was a great joy to cross the Ponte MoUe ; a great 
 joy to be once more in Rome ! My mother was ill there, which 
 delayed our departure. Then I was again not well, which 
 was a fresh anxiety. But at last, on Saturday the 9th, I had the 
 happiness of starting for Naples, which we were to reach the 
 following day; but at Velletri, new uncertainties ensued. It 
 was proposed that on account of our health, and the brigands, 
 we should sleep there. There was nothing I would not have 
 done to arrive at the end of our journey — that^end so long sighed 
 for, and so often postponed. They saw I was dying to proceed, 
 and we v/ent on and travelled through the night. I was enjoy- 
 ing the foretaste, if not the actual possession of happiness, and 
 every step brought me nearer to it. There was something 
 charming to me even in the darkness ! It seemed to shroud me 
 and my joyful thoughts. At last the sun rose, and shone on 
 Mola di Gaeta in all its enchanting beauty. Mola di Gaeta, 
 washed by the waves of the Bay of Naples ; Mola di Gaeta, 
 whence I could see Vesuvius and Ischia ; Mola di Gaeta, where 
 in 1829 I had knelt in a grove of orange trees, and gazing with 
 enraptured eyes on the blue sky and sea, had prayed to see 
 Naples once again, and to enjoy a little of this world's bliss ! 
 
 ' We breakfasted there, horribly impatient for the post horses. 
 At one moment I thought we should have to stay the night. But 
 when the horses were forthcoming ! When they actually came ! 
 . . . Alas ! there is now no place on earth towards which I 
 long to rush ; no possible moment of Hfe so rich in joy, as that 
 
 G 
 
82 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 little space of time when I had not yet seen, but when I was ex- 
 pecting to see, Albert. That little moment of impatient expecta- 
 tion which seemed almost painful, when I looked back to it from 
 my aftertaste of joy ! 
 
 ' At nightfall we arrived at Capua, and from there they drove 
 us dreadfiilly badly till Aversa, At last — at last, we reached 
 Naples, but at a foot's pace. At Chiaja they were mending the 
 pavement. I could not help wondering at the sort of fate which 
 seemed even at the last moment to multiply delays, for the heavy 
 carriage in which I was, had to turn into the Vicofreddo, and I, 
 the only one of the party who was dying to arrive, was the last 
 to reach our house. I waved my handkerchief as I passed the 
 adjoining one, thinking some of them would be at the window, 
 but they were already at our house. I was almost wild with joy. 
 The first person I saw was Eugenie, who was opening the car- 
 riage door and letting down the steps. I sprang out, and at one 
 glance saw Albert on the stairs — Albert's own self ! Albert alive ! 
 for I was always thinking of Civita Yecchia. He was very calm, 
 and that immediately calmed me. I saw Pauline, Fernand, every 
 one of them. It was ecstacy to go up the stairs thus surrounded. 
 In such moments there is an instinctive but intense consciousness 
 of happiness, which makes us feel as if it must be eternal. We 
 cannot conceive that it should end. Poor creatures that we are ! 
 But, oh, beloved Father in Heaven ! if Thy Paradise is the end- 
 less continuation of such bliss as that, unspeakable, indeed, must 
 be its joys ! 
 
 ' Madame de la Ferronnays was in the drawing-room, and M. 
 de la Ferronnays came in afterwards. I thought Albert much 
 better than when we had parted, and I could feel nothing but 
 gladness. Our apartments were charming. I had a pretty room 
 on the side of the house nearest to the La Ferronnays', and we 
 could talk from one balcony to the other. 
 
 ' It was delightful to wake the next morning. I enjoyed a 
 sort of happiness I had never expected to feel. Before I was 
 dressed, Pauline and Eugenie walked in just as they used to do. 
 Albert came later to the drawing-room. I made acquaintance 
 that day with Charles and Emma, and kissed little Alfred for the 
 fi.rst time. A few days afterwards Albert's parents and mine 
 began to talk over the possibilities of our marriage. I was afraid 
 this might give rise to painful discussions, and wished they had 
 let us enjoy for a little while in quiet the happiness of being once 
 more together. 
 
 ' On Sunday, the 17th of November, I was not at all well, and 
 when M. Sauvan asked me, in a somewhat inquisitive manner, if 
 my indisposition was not perhaps attributable to some mental 
 
A SISTER'S STOEY. 83 
 
 cause, I burst into tears, and simply assented, without entering 
 further into the subject. My tears of course were very signifi- 
 cant. An exaggerated report of this Httle scene reached M, de 
 la Ferronnays' ears, and he spoke to Pauline of the desperation 
 with which I had rolled my head on the pillow while M. Sauvan 
 was speaking to me. As it happened, I was not in bed, but 
 standing at the time. I was glad to be able to tell Pauline, who 
 thought that sort of thing would not have been hke me, what 
 had really passed, and given rise to this bit of gossip which 
 wounded my pride. I had no objection to be thought anxious 
 and unhappy, as long as it remained doubtful whether Albert and 
 I were to spend our lives together, but it annoyed me to be re- 
 presented as giving way to that sort of passionate despair. 
 
 ' In the evening of that day I was lying on the sofa rather sad, 
 when Eugenie came in. I shall never forget that moment of 
 my life. The day was closing in, and the room getting dark. 
 Eugenie began by pitying me because I was ill, but did not at 
 first make any reply to my complaints that our happiness was 
 still so uncertain. At last she said : " Then you don't know ? " 
 Oh, those words, they still seem to ring in my ears ! She told 
 me as much as she knew of what had been settled. Pauline 
 came in afterwards, and from her I learnt that I might look 
 upon Albert as my future husband/ 
 
 ALBERT TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBEET. 
 
 'Naples: December 10th, 1833. 
 
 * Now, my dear friend, let me try if I can achieve writing a few 
 words to you. For a fortnight I have tried to do so, but never 
 could finish a letter. That you may understand this, I must tell 
 you that Easter is to be the final term of our trial. You may 
 imagine, for I cannot describe it, the happiness which fills my 
 heart to overflowing. I know you will not think that my silence 
 on that point proceeds from a want of confidence. I would give 
 anything to see you. What are your new plans ? Is there no 
 chance of their bringing you this way, and of your being present 
 at the happiest moment of my life ? I want to know what you 
 are thinking of, and where you are. Oh, I wish I could give you 
 a share of my happiness I I am unworthy of so many blessings, 
 of that life of joy and gladness which began two years ago, and 
 will never end ! 
 
 ' This letter will be very confused, for I am in a most unsettled 
 condition of mind. But these are our plans. I am to be married 
 after Easter, and we set off the same day for Frankfort, where we 
 shall part with my mother-in-law, and then go on to establish 
 
 g2 
 
84 A SISTER'S STOBY. 
 
 ourselves at Montigny. My family will meet us there. I am 
 telling you all this as if it were the most natural, simple thing in 
 the world, and all the time I hardly know if I am on earth or in 
 Heaven ! Forgive the incoherence of this letter. I do so want 
 to talk to you. Pray for us, dear friend, and bless God for His 
 goodness to me. As I look back, I feel you so closely connected 
 with my past life. You have been associated with all this happi- 
 ness, and it began when I was with you. What is to happen to 
 us ? Are we to meet again, and to spend delightful hours in 
 each other's society ? I sometimes fear that the life of agitation 
 and excitement which you have hitherto led, will not harmonise 
 wdth the calm existence I am looking forward to. We tread such 
 different paths ; and yet I cannot do without you. The star 
 which I have followed side by side with you will guide me as 
 long as I live, and your name and the thought of you are for ever 
 linked with it. I love you more dearly than a brother. Adieu, 
 write to me. Alexandrine sends you her kindest remembrances ; 
 she must be included in your friendship for me. If you write to 
 M. de Lamennais, beg him to pray for us.' 
 
 ALBERT TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT.* 
 
 ' Naples : December 20th, 1833. 
 ' My dear unhappy Mend, I have just received your letter from 
 Frankfort. It has thrown me into the greatest agitation. What 
 would not I give to be with you. It is perhaps presumptuous to 
 think I should be of any use, or could give you any comfort. I 
 should like to answer the first part of your letter, but the end of 
 it haunts me like a painful dream. Dearest friend, for Grod's 
 sake do not go back to France at this moment. Measure the 
 depths of the abyss into which you are about to cast yourself, and 
 remember that if once you take that step, it may become im- 
 possible to turn back. There was but one voice in praise of the 
 Abbe de Lamennais when he made his submission. Some evil- 
 minded persons were wicked enough to throw doubts on the 
 sincerity of that act, but their insinuations were treated with 
 contempt, and the sacred authority of the Church was vindicated 
 by its means. It may be that the words which you have scat- 
 tered over the world have been inspired by Grod, but everything 
 combines to show you that enough has been said. If they are 
 really of Divine birth they will bear fruit, and shine out one day 
 in all the splendour of truth. The time is not yet come, perhaps, 
 when we can reap the blessings they promise. We must shudder 
 
 * This and the following letters allude to decisions in regard to the Avenir 
 and other publications of Montalembert and De Lamennais. — [Tbanslatob.] 
 
A SISTEB'S 8T0BY. 85 
 
 at the sight of the calamities which an excess of zeal might bring 
 about, and shrink with horror from the idea of a schism. Let us 
 gather round the Cross, the foundation-stone of the Church, to 
 cherish and defend, not to undermine her. I implore you, my 
 dear friend, compel yourself not to yield to M. de Lamennais' per- 
 suasions. May God bless and save you ! Do keep out of the 
 way, and travel for a year or two as you intended. I would give 
 anything, as I have already said, to be with you just now. I 
 dread your being alone, and have wearied my brains to hit upon 
 some plan that would enable me to go to you. But it is so 
 difficult. 
 
 ' If you have received my last letter, you now know the happi- 
 ness that awaits me this spring ; but I assure you, my dear friend, 
 I would willingly defer it in order to hasten to you. But I fear 
 it cannot be. The princess leaves Naples in April. If she took 
 away her daughter with her, it is impossible to tell what might 
 happen. The happiness which even now I dare not make sure 
 of, though the difficulties seem at present smoothed away, 
 might in that case be for ever forfeited. I am going, however, 
 to speak about it to my father, and by the next post I will tell 
 you what I can do. With what impatience I shall look for 
 your letters. I do not know what will become of me if I hear 
 you are gone to Paris. In the name of our friendship, and of all 
 who love you, and in His sacred Name in Whom we are for ever 
 united, let duty overcome every argument urged against it. All 
 my belongings, who love you as one of our own selves, are 
 alarmed at seeing such an alternative before you. My father 
 speaks of you with a paternal solicitude. As to me, my beloved 
 friend, I cannot tell you the anguish I felt on receiving your 
 letter. On Monday I shall be calmer, and able to write to you 
 at greater length. Between this and then I shall ascertain if it 
 would be possible for me to go to you. Adieu, my dearest friend. 
 I love you far more than ever. My sisters and Alexandrine wish 
 me to say everything affectionate and kind. They are all terrified 
 at the idea of your going to Paris. Your friend for life.' 
 
 alexandrine's story (continued). 
 
 ' Is it not evident that Albert's love for me must have been 
 very great, if a friendship such as his for M. de Montalembert, 
 which he never disguised from me, did not make me at all 
 jealous ? If he had left me at that time to go to him, it might 
 have grieved me perhaps, but not made me to doubt his affection. 
 There was so much devotedness in his character, that his first 
 impulse was to sacrifice his love as a happiness exclusively his 
 
A SISTER'S STOBY. 
 
 own. This generosity of spirit pleased me. Albert's numerous 
 friends were always satisfied and felt no jealousy, because that 
 gentle heart of his, so rich in tenderness, could afford to love them 
 all, and opened to a new and wholesome affection, without taking 
 anything from those already dear to it. Oh, my beloved one, 
 you loved even on earth as the Blessed love in Heaven ! There 
 was something infinite in that love.' 
 
 ALBERT TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 'December 24tli, 1833. 
 
 * My dear Friend, — You must have received a letter I wrote 
 you immediately on getting yours. It was, I am sure, very con- 
 fused and incoherent, for I was very much agitated, and would 
 have given anything to go to you at once. Indeed, I think I 
 half promised I would. Since then I have seen it was a vain 
 hope. I cannot leave Naples, and I very much fear we shall 
 only meet for a moment in the spring. I feel often so sorry to 
 have spent these two years at a distance from you, but then the 
 thought of my great happiness checks this transient, though real 
 regret. I am not afraid to own it, for you know well how 
 ardently and deeply I am attached to you. Would we were to- 
 gether, so that you might read in my eyes all the affectionate 
 sympathy with which I would fain soften the bitterness of your 
 disappointment. I feel your suffering all the more acutely be- 
 cause my own heart is steeped in joy. God has showered His 
 blessings on my worthless self, and you, dear friend, have hitherto 
 known nothing but sorrow ! 
 
 ' I tremble to think of you so alone. Do write soon and often, 
 and tell me M. de Lamennais' plans. I scarcely venture to fix 
 my thoughts on that subject. Everybody's eyes are upon him. 
 What will he do in this decisive moment ? Why does he urge 
 you to return to Paris ? If Rome decides against you, surely 
 you will submit. You could not do otherwise ! I must, I am 
 sure, have mistaken your meaning. But why does that idea 
 haunt me like a dream ? Why is it that I see watchful heresy 
 preparing to applaud a new desertion from the Church. You 
 speak of the incompatibility of liberty with religion, which is, you 
 say, dividing a soul asunder. Could this be possible ? Oh no ; 
 believe me these are groundless fears. Liberty means the Cross 
 of Christ, and God has planted it in the world as the rallying- 
 point of the human race. 
 
 ' Mark the gradual progress of true liberty from the hour of 
 its first descent from Heaven. It has grown and spread, slowly 
 indeed, for men must have faith before they receive it into their 
 
A SISTER'S STOBY. 87 
 
 hearts ; but we must not deem it extinct because its advance does 
 not keep pace with our wishes. Shall we despair of the future 
 when it appears so much brighter than ever ? If all is hopeless, 
 whence comes the widespread sympathy among nations, this 
 universal craving for new life and for religion ? No, my dear 
 friend, let us cast from us such unworthy fears ; let joy, on the 
 contrary, fill our hearts. God's Hand is visible in this check 
 from Rome. It will give time to younger men to overtake you, 
 and later you will resume your onward march. They are but 
 feebly enlightened yet by the fire which burns in your he^rt. My 
 knowledge of politics is very limited. It is only to you that I 
 impart my opinions, or rather my feelings on the subject ; for I 
 simply utter what I feel, and nothing more. Each one has his 
 vocation ; mine is quiet and obscurity. Yet in its higher flights 
 my soul sees life under another aspect, and understands happiness 
 of a different kind. With anxious eyes I watch your course, and 
 seek to penetrate your thoughts. It seems as if I were walking 
 after you along your toilsome road, ready, should you grow weary, 
 
 to catch you in my arms I had left this letter on 
 
 my table, and when I came back I found these few lines from 
 Pauline.* Enclosed in mine is also one from Alexandrine. She 
 asked me immediately if she might write to you. You see you 
 have many friends here. It makes me happy to think so. For 
 God's sake do not despond. There are good days in store for 
 you. 
 
 * Write to me often, for I cannot bear to be long without hear- 
 ing from you, now that you are alone and out of spirits. My father 
 is very sorry that you are hot doing something to divert your 
 thoughts. He dreads your going to Paris, where you might not 
 be master of your own actions. My dear Charles, do have mercy 
 on your friends. I have always believed that you will be one 
 day as happy as you deserve, and I hold to that belief in spite 
 of the clouds which beset us. Never let me lose your friendship, 
 for I cannot do without it. Your devoted friend, Albert/ 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 * Dear M. de Montalembert, — I must tell you myself how deeply 
 1 feel for you at this painful moment. I am sure you will not be 
 annoyed at Albert's speaking to me of what concerns you. I 
 should not believe he had confidence in me if he tried to conceal 
 the pain which your trials give him. They make him so unhappy 
 that I venture to implore you not to do anything likely to increase 
 your present troubles ; and so, strange as it may seem, I join my 
 
 * Not given. 
 
88 A SISTEB'S STORY. 
 
 entreaties to Albert's, and beg of yon to stay qnietly at Mnnicli, 
 or else to come and see ns in Italy. I hope I am not presumptuous 
 in thinking that you will be a little influenced by my advice, for 
 you had the kindness to say that you loved me because I love 
 Albert. I often repeat those vs^ords to myself, for that is the 
 way in which I now like people to love me. Though I am 
 abundantly happy as it is, I should consider your friendship as 
 a great additional blessing, and I hope, thanks to Albert, I may 
 one day enjoy it. Even now I feel for you as for a brother. 
 And, oh ! I wish I could do something to comfort you ! But 
 please, please, never give way to hopelessness. God has happi- 
 ness in store for all, and you deserve more than any one to be 
 happy. I trust He will hear our prayers. I say our prayers, 
 because I too will pray for you. You do not, I suppose, object 
 to it, in spite of your severity towards us poor Protestants, 
 which is my only quarrel with you. Excuse my having said so 
 much, and believe me to be your true, though very useless friend, 
 whom I trust you will not disown. Farewell, and promise us to 
 come in a few months. Above all things, never doubt of the 
 boundless goodness of God. I have such strong faith in it. 
 
 'Alexandeine.'* 
 
 * On the 3rd of January, 1834, Albert received an answer from M. de Mon- 
 talembert to these letters, which contained the following passage : — 
 
 ' I am lost in amazement at the effect which my letter from Frankfort has 
 produced on you all. I must certainly have expressed myself very ill if I can 
 have led you for an instant to suppose that I should not act precisely as you 
 advise. I cannot but think, however, that I told you in so many words that I 
 was going to Munich, and that if it had ever crossed my mind to go to Paris, it 
 was only to use whatever little influence I may possess with M. de Lamennais to 
 dissuade him from all idea of resistance to the Holy See. All that you say with 
 so much affection, good sense, and heartfelt eloquence, I have likewise felt, and 
 there is not a sentence of yo\ir letter which does not perfectly agree with what I 
 have thought and resolved since I read the decisive brief of the 5th of October. 
 Moreover, there is not a word in it which I have not said or written to M. de 
 Lamennais, in order to induce him to act as I have done, that is, to withdraw 
 from the field, to bow down before God's severe decrees, and patiently and 
 humbly await the accomplishment of his designs. But what is incredible (and 
 I almost hesitate about mentioning it), is, that M, de Lamennais has been 
 offended by my advice, though I gave it with more gentleness, affection, and 
 openheartedness, than I have ever used towards anyone on earth. His answer 
 shows me but too plainly, that this difference of opinion has pained and estranged 
 him from me. I could not have believed it, and my conscience absolves me. 
 He has, however, followed the line of conduct I recommended, and even gone 
 beyond it, for he has not only forsworn all political action, but has purely and 
 simply accepted the Encyclical letter, withoxit excepting anything, and bound 
 himself — according to the form prescribed by the Holy Father, " neither to write 
 nor to approve of anything contrary to it." ' 
 
A SISTEE'S 8T0BY. 
 
 ALBEET TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBEET. 
 
 * I begin not to mistrust the future, the bright beautiful fature ; 
 my earthly Heaven, in which I can discern no possible cloud. 
 Still it somewhat saddens me to reflect that my fate will neces- 
 sarily be henceforward less closely connected with yours. This 
 gives me at times a heartache, which I am not sorry to find 
 you also feel. Yes ; I cannot but regret our old habits of inti- 
 macy, but I get over this regret by hoping that my marriage will 
 only increase our friendship, which will grow stronger by the 
 addition of Alexandrine's, who is already so much attached to 
 you. Our home will always be yours, dearest friend, and what- 
 ever afiection can give of peace and happiness, you will find 
 treasured up for you in our hearts. I can quite understand that 
 you were surprised at our letters, for we ought to have known 
 you too well to have had a doubt as to your conduct, under these 
 circumstances. Nevertheless, I must confess I was anxious. 
 You were pushed to such extremities, so exasperated, so without 
 consolation, that I felt afraid you might become desperate. It is 
 quite true that you told me of your resolution to avoid Paris, 
 and to spend the winter at Munich, but you added that M. de 
 LameuDais was pressing you to come back, and though I had no 
 misgivings as to your own sentiments, I could not divest myself 
 of fancies and fears. You must forgive them, for they were the 
 result of excessive afiection. 
 
 ' Do not be cast down, my dear Charles. Do not give way to 
 discouragement. If you were deceived then, let us thank God 
 that He has enlightened you, and do not reproach yourself for 
 what was only an excess of zeal — a too fervent passion for good. 
 But for Heaven's sake try to feel calm. In spite of all the joy 
 I have been accustomed to in hearing your praise, in witnessing 
 the renown which attaches to your name, I am unspeakably glad 
 to find you determined to withdraw from the lists, and remain 
 awhile aloof. I know your ardent soul. I know your fiery zeal ; 
 I know that you are inclined to despise even the semblance of 
 prudence, and that you dearly love danger. On the other hand, 
 I saw envy, and perhaps hatred, gaining strength. I cannot tell 
 you the fears I entertained, and gladly would I have given my 
 life to ward ofi* the storm gathering above your head. How 
 gladly I should see you leave the mountain top, always most 
 exposed to the rage of the elements, and take refuge in our vale 
 of peace and love. Soon you will feel joy stealing into your 
 bruised heart. I have a sweet foreboding that the moment is 
 approaching, when God will shower His blessings upon you, as 
 the reward of constancy and faith. Oh, my dearest friend, may 
 God for ever bless you ! ' 
 
90 A SISTER'S STOEY. 
 
 alexandeine's stort (continuation). 
 
 * On January 1st, 1834, I wrote these words in my journal: 
 *' Oh, my God, bless this year to us all. I ask it in the name of 
 our Lord Jesus Christ." On the eve of that day I copied this 
 passage into my book : " Slight joys are followed by slight suffer- 
 ings, but to extraordinary happiness succeeds extraordinary 
 sorrows." What a sentence ! If this is true, we, who are so 
 happy, ought to tremble. 
 
 ' On Friday, March 7th, 1834,* I happened to go to my mother's 
 room at a somewhat unusual time, whilst she was dressing. She 
 had on her knees a number of old-fashioned trinkets. Prince 
 Lapoukhyn was very fond of these sort of things, and people 
 often brought some to the house, in hopes that he would buy 
 them. I looked at them in an indifferent manner — I was very 
 careless in those days — and I said to my mother, little thinking 
 how important the remark would prove, " That little trinket is 
 exactly like the one which Madame de Marcellus had on her 
 forehead at supper, on Easter day." These words instantly struck 
 her, and recalled to her mind the robbery at that lady's house, 
 on the 18th of December. Doubts were at first e:^ressed as to 
 the correctness of my impression, but on examining it closely, I 
 declared and maintained this trinket to be the same I had seen 
 Madame de Marcellus wear. It was a miniature shrine in enamel, 
 containing the figures of a king and a queen with their crowns on, 
 and its style and workmanship were so peculiar, that it was very 
 unlikely that an exactly similar one should exist. We sent it to 
 Madame de Marcellus, who recognised it at once. This discovery 
 gave a clue to the real authors of the robbery, and poor Car- 
 minello, who had been wrongfally accused, was acquitted and set 
 at liberty. He came on the 15th of June to thank me as his 
 deliverer. He had been absolutely tortured : hung with his head 
 downwards, had a wound in his leg, had been flogged, and 
 drenched with cold water, and besides, was threatened with 
 twenty-five years of the galleys, where the actual thief , now is. 
 I took it as a good omen, that just before my marriage, I had 
 been, under Grod, the means of saving an innocent person, for no 
 one else had noticed the trinket. 
 
 * Whenever afterwards poor Carminello saw me, he always 
 
 * On the 18th of December of the preceding year, as we were coming out of 
 the house of Count Stackelberg, on the night of a ball, we were told that a con- 
 siderable robbery had taken place that evening at the Comte and Comtesse 
 Marcellus'. Money, jewels, and all sorts of other things had been carried off. 
 This crime was unanimously attributed to one of their servants, a Neapolitan 
 of the name of Carminello, who was immediately thrown into prison, in spite of 
 all his protestations of innocence. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 91 
 
 renewed his expressions of gratitude, and included Albert in the 
 blessings he showered upon me. 
 
 ' On March 9th, I opened for the first time since Boklet, my 
 locked journal. The last words in it were these : " When shall I 
 open this book again ? Oh, if I dared to say, ' At Naples ! ' " 
 
 ' And here I am, at Naples — at Naples ! Oh, my good God ! 
 was it not ungratefal never to open this book for eight months ? 
 Not even to record that all my wishes were fulfilled. I am happy, 
 rapturously happy, and I believe I shall continue to be so. Still, 
 there is a mixture of feelings in this joy. Sometimes I fear that 
 I love Albert too much, and I am humbled by this thought. 
 At another moment I fancy I do not love him enough, that I 
 am not capable of a deep love. I am not satisfied with myself, 
 and often not with others. I think myself very worthless, and 
 yet I am vexed that others do not think more highly of me. If 
 I better deserved to be happy, I should not feel these misgivings. 
 One thing at least I ask of Thee, my God ! Let me not be a 
 cause of sorrow to any one. Grant me this for Our Lord Jesus 
 Christ's sake ! And so I shall be married in a few weeks. Oh ! 
 may I never grieve Albert. I wish I were worthy of him. 
 
 ' I am so afraid of displeasing him, that there is nothing I would 
 not do to be in every respect what he would wish. And yet I 
 am sometimes careless. Nothing, not even his love, seems per- 
 fectly to satisfy me, and yet I am not good enough to care for 
 Heaven alone. At least, I must change very much before that 
 happens. I am such a strange being, suspicious, proud, irritable, 
 and apathetic at the same time. What will become of me ? 
 Shall I fail to please Albert, or shall I be unhappy myself ? On 
 March 18th (I think), I wrote the following note to Albert ; — 
 " My darling, why did you go away ? My mother left me almost 
 immediately afterwards, and I am sore of heart and must write, 
 for we should have spent an hour-and-a-half together. Oh, dear ! 
 I hope God will not punish me for feeling so acutely what after 
 all is unimportant, seeing that we are to spend all the days of 
 our life together.* I am unreasonable, I know, but what a 
 vexatious evening it has been, and I am so afraid the same thing 
 may happen again to-morrow. Let us try to manage better. 
 Oh, how I love you, and how sweet it is to feel that I may tell 
 you so ! You are perhaps just going to say your prayers. Oh ! 
 may I not rest assured that everything which has befallen us has 
 been God's will, and that He has chosen that our lives should be 
 linked together ? Farewell till to-morrow. God be always with 
 you." 
 
 * Later on, Alexandrine wrote on the margin of this page : ' life — life ! 
 What, alas ! are all our days 1 * 
 
92 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 * Albert always kept this note in the little pocket-book I have 
 mentioned, and two years afterwards, beside his coffin, I read it 
 again. 
 
 ' That same day I received M. de Montalembert's answer to 
 my note. He spoke in it of the strong and deep attachment he 
 had felt for Albert ever since he had known him, and said 
 that my aflPection was the reward God had bestowed on " that 
 heart so full of love and devotedness to his fellow- creatures ; the 
 most affectionate and the most faithful heart he had ever met 
 with in this world." Delicious praise, and well-deserved by my 
 Albert!' 
 
 In the midst of the press of his own affairs, Albert found 
 leisure at this time to write the following letter to a young 
 Englishman, with whom he had made acquaintance the year 
 before at Rome. It is too interesting not to insert here. 
 
 ALBERT TO MR. A. S. C. 
 
 * My dear Friend, — I did not expect, when we touched upon so 
 important a subject, that we were to go deeper into it. I said to 
 you one day that my religion was in perfect keeping with the 
 feelings which beautiful scenery inspires. We started, I think, 
 from that point. As we have, however, arrived at considering 
 the subject in a closer manner, I am well satisfied to discuss it 
 with you. 
 
 * I have never much read the Bible, as I told you, but I will set 
 before you, in the best way I can, the grounds of my attachment 
 to our religion. I look upon it as a mark of God's infinite good- 
 ness to have given us a belief which preserves us from falling 
 into error in matters of dogma. If it were true that we all had 
 the mission and right to determine our faith for ourselves, and to 
 trust to our own light alone to do so, only tell me, my dear friend, 
 what opinion or conviction would be the same in any two indi- 
 viduals ? Wonld not each man's belief be influenced by the extent 
 of his capacity, or the comparative goodness of his heart ? What 
 confusion would ensue ! You must see, on the one side, to what 
 excesses imagination might lead us, and on the other, how much 
 at a loss uneducated or incapable men would find themselves. 
 Where would justice be if knowledge and research alone could 
 guide us to the truth ? Instead of this, God in his goodness has 
 given us a light to protect us from error. The Church is the 
 visible form of faith, the foundation on which we are to build by 
 a constant increase in holiness. Were we obliged to spend our 
 
A SISTEB'S STOEY. 93 
 
 lives in seeking ttis starting point, death would overtake us be- 
 fore we had begun our most important work. 
 
 ' You say that you cannot understand confession. I will not 
 speak of the happiness it affords, for we must have practised it to 
 appreciate its value. But, my dear friend, do you think that be- 
 cause every man knows, as you say, that he ought to be good, it 
 is useless that he should be reminded of it ; and that his own re- 
 flections always suffice ? There is in words directly addressed to 
 ourselves by a living person a power and fulness which we should 
 seek in vain in books and in our own thoughts. The man whose 
 life is a perpetual struggle against his passions knows by experi- 
 ence all our miseries and sufferings. He is acquainted with the 
 malady and the means to overcome it, he rouses us from apathy, 
 comforts us in affliction, and restores to us hope and trust when 
 we are cast down. 
 
 ' You say again that it will not excuse me before God to plead 
 that I have learnt my errors from a priest ; but this is exactly 
 the danger from which we are quite safe. The priest can neither 
 deceive nor be deceived, for his doctrine is not his own ; he gives 
 us that of which the Church is the keeper, in which we have all 
 one and the same faith, and form one and the same body. 
 
 ' You are alarmed, you say, at the enormous objections to the 
 celibacy of the clergy. In the first place, this is only a simple 
 matter of discipline ; but I should like to point out to you what 
 wisdom and beauty is contained in this institution. " Men who 
 have desired to attain by thought to the heights of religion or 
 philosophy have always abstained from human contact. The first 
 Christians held this virtue in such esteem that in their opinion no 
 other could spring up or attain perfection in a soul where it did 
 not exist. Do not ask me to explain how this can be, for to 
 understand it we must also believe that when the sanctuary is pre- 
 pared God does not disdain to enter into it ; that there is intense 
 happiness in such a life when this virtue is fully practised, that 
 He grants to those who thus give themselves up to His absolute 
 influence unspeakable joys, which amply make amends for the 
 miserable pleasures of the world. The visions of the desert, the 
 inspirations of holy recluses, and the contemplations of saints for- 
 bid us to doubt it. There are not wanting authentic revelations 
 to establish the fact in the face of the most suspicious scepticism, 
 and certainly it is not incredible that a soul raised above the wants 
 and hopes of our gross flesh, should attain at last to that sublime 
 devotion which is called by this world folly, but the highest 
 wisdom in the world to come." * 
 
 * The inverted commas which mark this fine passage seem to show that it is 
 a quotation, but no reference is given. 
 
94 A SISTEB'S STORY. 
 
 * My dear friend, I am far from having exhausted all that could 
 be said on this subject. I am sorry to have done it so little jus- 
 tice, and I wish v^^ith all my heart you could meet with some one 
 fitter than myself to carry on this interesting discussion. 
 
 ' Yours most sincerely, Albert.' 
 
 Albert's journal (begun march, 1834). 
 
 ' Naples. — I have resolved to write a journal, but why to-day 
 and not yesterday I cannot tell, unless it is that I thought that 
 the obligation of giving an account of each day compels one to 
 spend it better. 
 
 ' Read Byron. Got up late ; wrote a few lines to Montalem- 
 bert ; translated some of Moore, and since two o'clock spent the 
 time as usual in a quiet, happy manner. I talked and thought a 
 great deal of our journey to Jerusalem, which I do not believe in ; 
 but what would I not give to go, supposing, of course, it were 
 with her ! 
 
 ' Naples, March 22nd. — Got up late, having slept badly. Read 
 English with Miss McCarthy. Went out riding, and enjoyed a 
 gallop along the chore. I feel often a wish to plunge into the sea, 
 to be in the midst of something boundless. This is, perhaps, the 
 reason why I so like to be alone. When I went in I made my 
 usual visit to Alexandrine. It is in those worldly salons that one 
 loses so much time. I should not often honour them with my 
 presence, if an angel were not to be found there who makes up 
 for all their emptiness. * * * is a strange man. I like him, and 
 he interests me. His life has been a failure, but I do not know 
 what else would have suited him. A long habit of independence 
 makes the slightest chain galling. Thank God ! I have known 
 early in life the blessing of restraint. 
 
 ' March 23rd. — Got up early. Read. Found in Moore a 
 woman's portrait, which I thought very like Pauline. Went to 
 Mass, and at two o'clock to see Alexandrine. Poor darling ! I 
 found her very sad. She torments herself with the idea that it 
 would have been better for me that we should never have been 
 engaged. And I too feel it at times, but only as far as she is i 
 concerned. But, on the whole, I do believe that it has been a ' 
 happy thing for both of us to have met, and that God blesses ouir 
 love. I speak very coldly, for I cannot disclose the deep and in- 
 tense feelings of my heart. I have the most perfect faith in the 
 fulfilment of my dream. ! my God, let Thy love descend upon 
 us like the dew ! * 
 
 *• Alexandrine wrote by the side of this passage : • ! my God, my Albert's 
 prayer was heard. It was the kind of prayer which pierces the clouds and 
 
A SISTER'S STOBY. 95 
 
 ' Marcli 24th. — I got up early, and went to Monsignor Porta. 
 I do not deserve so mucli mercy. Received absolution and heard 
 Mass. Came in and breakfasted. I should like to follow a sort 
 of rule of life, not for my health, but because I think it good for 
 the mind. Rode out. Wrote a little to Montalembert, for whom 
 my friendship seems to increase every day. Went to Alexandrine, 
 but we did not talk much. She went to dress for dinner at Count 
 Stackelberg's. Her dress was pretty, and she was looking lovely. 
 In the evening I sat a little while in Emma's drawing-room, and 
 enjoyed it ; but I seem to have entirely lost the habits of the 
 world, for when I go into society everything seems strange, and 
 I do not feel myself at home. I like so much my evenings alone 
 with Alexandrine, and those dear conversations to which nothing 
 else can be compared. When the Princess came home I went 
 there. We talked of all kinds of things. I had a dispute with 
 * * *, who is possessed with the spirit of contradiction. He 
 would .have taken my side of the argument had he been talking 
 to one who held a different opinion from me, for I am sure that 
 in reality he thinks as I do. At eleven o'clock, thank God ! every- 
 body went away, and then came our own delightful hour, which 
 passed too quickly. Oh, I do love her beyond all power of words 
 to express, more than she knows herself. It is always so difficult 
 to leave her. I have to tear myself away.* I walked on the shore 
 in the moonhght. The sea was rough and there was wind, a kind 
 of weather that I like. Wrote my journal, and went on with my 
 letter to Montalembert. Went to bed at one o'clock. I have not 
 finished my letter, but I am sleepy. Good night. 
 
 ' March 26th. — I got up at eight o'clock, under the impression 
 that I had a number of things to do, which I found to be quite a 
 mistake. I heard Mass, and received from the parish priest the 
 attestation of our banns. It is done, then ! I can hardly believe 
 it ! Life is very strange, and it frightens me when I think how 
 unworthy I am of this great blessing. Easter is very near. I 
 am not prepared, or rather I am ill-prepared for it. ! my God, 
 have mercy on me. Have mercy on us \ Had a delightful ride. 
 I never feel happier or more free than when alone on horseback. 
 At nine o'clock I went to my mother-in-law's house. The even- 
 ing was, as usual, tiresome at the beginning, and we were not left 
 
 reaches Thy throne. I had been that day to a Protestant confirmation, and it 
 was when I came home, I think, that in the course of conversation with my 
 brother and my mother, I refused to promise never to become a Catholic; and 
 I spoke in the evening to Albert in away which made him write, " that he had 
 a firm belief in the accomplishment of his dream." ' 
 
 * Alexandrine wrote on the margin : ' Ah ! yes. That short absence was 
 always a suffering. Our hearts are insatiable. We desire happiness to be 
 perfect and eternal.' 
 
96 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 alone till eleven o'clock. It is midnigM, and I am going to bed. 
 
 ! God, have mercy upon us, and fill our lives with the love of 
 Thee and of each other ! 
 
 'Naples, March 27th, Holy Thursday. — Got up early. Went 
 to Church. Came back at twelve. We did not breakfast till 
 about one o'clock. At two went to Alexandrine. We were not 
 in good spirits. She cried, sweet angel, and big, beautiful tears 
 ran down her cheeks. How I felt to love her ! At four o'clock 
 
 1 came away, and went to Tenebraa, visiting several Churches on 
 my way. I like the custom of forbidding carriages in the streets 
 on Holy Thursday and Good Friday. The troops trail their arms 
 as a sign of mourning, which is a beautiful and touching idea. 
 There is so much poetry in these southern customs. Dined at 
 seven o'clock, and at eight went to Alexandrine. Had a pleasant 
 little bit of time with her, standing by the fire-place in the prince's 
 room. I have always a gTeater abundance of thoughts and of 
 power to express them, when I am alone with her than at any 
 other time. I am scared by a third person, and altogether extin- 
 guished by a room full of people. Is it possible that it is a quarter 
 to one ? I must go to bed. ! my God, bless us both ! 
 
 ' March 28th, Good Friday. — A beautiful service at the Chapel 
 of the Fortress. Breakfasted at about one, and at two went to 
 the princess. Alexandrine was at her Church, and did not come 
 in for an hour. Half-an-hour after that I left her to go to Tenebras, 
 and came back at eight o'clock. Company again. We were only 
 one minute alone, at the tea-table. Alexandrine asked me not to 
 go to Mola di Gaeta, but only to Castellamare. I like that as 
 much, or perhaps better, and we shall talk of it again. What 
 happy days are at hand ! My father and I came away about 
 midnight. Said my prayers, and to bed at past twelve o'clock. 
 
 ' March 29th. — Got up at eight o'clock, intending to go to 
 Communion, though very unworthy. I went to Monseigneur 
 Porta, who was officiating at an ordination. A most touching 
 ceremony. What Hfe there is in our worship ! how it affects the 
 soul, and how striking was the patriarchal beauty and piety of 
 that venerable countenance, and the fervour of the assistants, a 
 Franciscan and a Benedictine. I did well to go to that Church. 
 My heart was cold, but life and fervour have now returned. 
 Monsignor Porta was too tired to hear me in confession, and put 
 me off* till to-morrow. I went to Emma's room, where I found 
 Alexandrine. I took her home, and remained till their dinner- 
 time. Went back in the evening, and we spoke of the devotion 
 to the Blessed Virgin, about which she has doubts. This grieves 
 me, and I wish I could convince her. ! my God, give her faith 
 and simplicity of heart ! When I came ia. I looked out for 
 
A SISTEB'S STORY. 97 
 
 certain passages upon this devotion, and found one which I shall 
 copy and translate for her. We had a pleasant evening, and I 
 left early. May God watch over my angel ! On coming home I 
 found some people still with Emma. I withdrew and sat by the 
 fire to think and read.' 
 
 That same evening Alexandrine wrote in her book : 
 
 ' To-morrow I am going to Communion, and my heart is so 
 cold.- Even about earthly things I feel nothing, and for those of 
 God I have little faith, and no fervour. Yet I wish to believe. 
 ! my God, give me Thy help at every step I take, so that I may 
 not commit sins which I should have been less exposed to when 
 my soul was in a better state. ! my God, I beseech Thee, in 
 the name of Thy Divine Son to let me die rather than communi- 
 cate unworthily — rather than sin grievously against Thee. As to 
 those who have sinned and will communicate with me without 
 thinking themselves in danger, I feel confident Thou wilt not 
 betray their hope, for Thou hast promised that those who trust 
 in Thee shall not be put to shame. Thine only begotten Son 
 hath asked of Thee to forgive those who know not what they do. 
 ! God most pitiful, Whom I fear, and yet Whom I love for Thy 
 infinite sweetness and mercy, my Father Who art in Heaven, for- 
 sake me not when my heart is dead and dry, but give me faith, 
 hope, and love, and enlighten me as to all I ought to believe. I 
 beseech Thee in the name of Jesus Christ teach me the true faith !^* 
 
 Albert's journal. 
 
 * March 24th, 1834. — I went out riding with my father at 
 e'ght o'clock in the morning. To the Camoldoli, where we heard 
 Mass. It was charming. New life seems to fill the soul in 
 prayer, and the lot of these monks is a blessed one. There is 
 something so majestic in that place, so suggestive of high and 
 noble thoughts. Far from cities and the world, they are un- 
 conscious of its evils, and you read, in the serenity of their 
 countenances, that real happiness which has its source in God. 
 Yet the world, sectarians, and the enemy of mankind all strive, 
 though in vain, to discredit the purity of these angels in human 
 form ! What am I by the side of these men, who have made 
 sacrifice the only joy of their lives ? I who am cast down at the 
 least trouble or contradiction, at the least obstacle that opposes 
 my passions. I reverence mortification, for there is nothing so 
 beautiful as purity. This evening I talked to Alexandrine. I 
 want her to have more faith. God loves little children for their 
 
 * Alexandrine afterwards wrote under this : ' This prayer has never yet been 
 uttered in vain.' 
 
 H 
 
98 ^ SISTER'S STOBY 
 
 simplicity, their openness, and tlaeir love. Faith is beautiful as 
 Heaven is beautiful. Oh, for words ! for words to convey to her 
 these thoughts ! 
 
 * April 1st. — Got up late. Had my English lesson. In the 
 afternoon went to see Alexandrine, and talked over plans for the 
 future. Our wedding-day is fixed for the 17th, and we go that 
 day to Castellamare, where, after a few days, my mother-in-law 
 will join us. After some excursions in the neighbourhood we 
 shall return with her to Naples, and see her off. I hve in dread 
 of never actually arriving at such happiness, and that something 
 or other must happen to disturb it. ! God of goodness, 
 guard and bless us I This evening there was company at the 
 Princess's, which was tiresome, and I had only half-an- hour with 
 my angel. I asked her to give me a ring on which was engraved 
 " For Life ;" but she refused, for our love, she said, is not to end 
 with Hfe. From Heaven it came, and to Heaven it must tend.* 
 Came home, wrote in my journal, read some of Byron's poetry, 
 and the Imitation of Christ. I am sleepy, and my last chapter of 
 the Imitation suffered from it. 
 
 'April 2nd. — ^Went out with Ventignano. To-morrow the 
 witnesses are to meet at Count Stackelberg's to attest Alex- 
 andrine's baptism. In the afternoon to the Princess's. Had a 
 nice time with Alexandrine, and dined with them, but stupidly 
 outstaid everybody. I thought the evening would never come to 
 an end, thanks to the * * *, who tired me to death. I got into 
 such a nervous state that I very nearly made a scene. Twenty 
 times I was coming away, which would have been the best thing 
 I could have done ; for after they and my father left I was so out 
 of sorts that even a tete-a-tete with Alexandrine could not soothe 
 my irritation, and I came home. I am sorry, and I would put off 
 my marriage two days not to have had it happen. I am an idiot. 
 I must read a chapter of the Imitation, and the Confessions of St. 
 Augustine, and go to bed. I wish it were to-morrow, and that I 
 had seen her again. 
 
 * April 3rd. — Up at eight o'clock. First to Yentignano, and 
 then to the jeweller. At three in the afternoon, a grand function. 
 Seven witnesses, nearly all ministers, counsellors, and generals, 
 met and forswore themselves, or something very like it, about 
 Alexandrine's baptism.f A horrid soHcitor contrived to make up 
 
 * Alexandrine made this note : 'How well I remember that evening; Albert 
 was looking at my rings, wishing to have one that had belonged to my father^ 
 but I refused, saying, with a smile, " For life ! No, life is too short ! " ' 
 
 t An absurd formality made it necessary for seven persons to affirm that 
 Alexandrine had been baptised. This was to supply the place of a certificate, 
 which could not be obtained. None of those witnesses, as they were called, 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 99 
 
 four pages out of a matter of four lines. I thanked the grandees, 
 and saw the judge into his carriage — which I had to pay for. 
 The rogue ! Came back to Lapoukhjm's, dined ; the evening 
 began stupidly, but afterwards I had half-an-hour alone w4th 
 Alexandrine, which was pleasant. Dear love ! She must take 
 me as I am, two different men in one. She loves them both. So 
 much the better, or perhaps so much the worse. All I know is 
 that I adore her. Twelve days more ! God be with us ! ' 
 
 ALBERT TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 'Naples, April 5th, 1834. 
 
 ' I am behind hand with you, my dear friend, but you can hardly 
 imagine to what a degree my approaching marriage engrosses me, 
 which is natural enough. It is impossible to describe to you my 
 happiness, or the agitation it causes me ; and yet, as I must 
 always mix up a little sadness with everything, I am often out of 
 spirits, which is not only foolish, but I am afraid ungrateful too. 
 You must, alas ! take me as I am. I really dread the responsi- 
 bility of drawing that angelic being into all the sufferings which 
 life is perhaps preparing for us. I am afraid of my own 
 character, of my fickleness, my inexperience, and above all of the 
 want of real merit in myself I love all that is noble, and shrink 
 from all base and vile things, but I am wholly deficient in the 
 merits which result from education, character, or power of mind. 
 You would hardly believe how this thought pursues and grieves 
 me. I feel my own inferiority, and my natural shyness diminishes 
 even the small capability I may possess. Your letters are the 
 only things that encourage me a little, for you have the gift of 
 making me think better of myself than I should naturally do. 
 If I were not speaking of you, I should say this was flattery, 
 aud Alexandrine was right when she said the other day : " I wish 
 all those who do not know you could read your friend's letters." 
 
 'No doubt they represent me in the most favourable light. 
 While on this matter I may as well mention how pleased I was 
 at what you said about my style of writing. It flattered me 
 very much, and my pleasure was not diminished by what you 
 added as to the want of method in my ideas. I admit the 
 perfect justice of your friendly advice, and do not think that I 
 am unconscious of my defects. I know but too well the in- 
 ordinate tendencies of my restless imagination. Will this ever 
 be cured? Ah! my dear friend, examine the cause, and 
 
 had been present at her baptism, which made Albert say they forswore them- 
 selves, or something like it. They only took her mother's word for the fact, 
 and her testimony alone ought to have been sufficient. 
 
 h2 
 
100 A SISTER'S STOBY. 
 
 acknowledge tlie existence of tlie evil, and instead of deceiving 
 yourself about me, lament as I do my deplorable barrenness. I 
 have reaped nothing from an education which, what with bad 
 teachers, what with weak health, and still more, perhaps, from 
 the want of real desire to do well, proved a complete failure, 
 This is a state of mind which you have never known, and an in- 
 tolerable one it is. I want to make up for lost time, and notwith- 
 standing the continual distractions which do and will beset me, 
 the leisure I enjoy at present gives me an opportunity of filling 
 up the void which a want of knowledge creates. But, my dear 
 friend, to know Jiow to study is half the battle, and this is just 
 what I require. I long to undertake everything, which is the 
 very way of doing nothing. A dreamy habit of thought, which 
 I know is most pernicious, makes me deplorably absent. In 
 short, I am thirsty, and do not know how to drink. 
 
 'I have already told you what made my marriage for some 
 time doubtful, and gave me fears that my hopes might be suddenly 
 deceived. But God has willed it otherwise, and all diflB.culties 
 are smoothed away. I shall owe all my happiness to my mother- 
 in-law, upon whom everything depended, and Prince Lapoukhyn 
 has been also very kind to Alexandrine. My brother-in-law is 
 the member of the family who likes me the least ; he is, how- 
 ever, gentlemanlike, well informed, and high minded, but a 
 captious, irritable disposition prevents his good qualities from 
 having free play. There is another brother, who is said to be 
 better tempered, and a good fellow, but I have not seen him. 
 There is one other person whom you know by sight, but whom I 
 have never mentioned to you — Count Putbus ; you may re- 
 member him at Rome. This good man had no other home than 
 Madame d'Alopeus's house ; he has travelled about with them for 
 twenty years, and has always been considered like one of the 
 family. When Madame d'Alopeus married at Florence, he fell 
 into a state of terrible despondency, and during the wedding this 
 cold man of the world was deeply affected. However, he was 
 very brave about it, and followed them all here. I cannot quite 
 tell what he feels about Alexandrine. If, as 1 think, it is only 
 friendship, it is so strong a friendship, that to see her give her 
 heart to another is more than he can bear, and he is going away 
 in a few days. Nothing will induce him to stay. Every now 
 and then I see tears in his eyes, though he tries to hide them from 
 me. This shows how unlike his cold exterior is to his true 
 nature. I have no doubt he will come back to us after a 
 while. He is trying to persuade us to go to Egypt. That is a 
 beautiful dream ! In that case you must join our caravan, 
 What do you say to it ? 
 
A SISTEB'S STORY. 101 
 
 ' I intended to have begun by answering what you tell me of 
 M. de Lamennais. Remember me to him, I beg of jou ; tell him 
 about us, and entreat him to draw down upon us the blessing of 
 God by his prayers. If I were not afraid of being troublesome, I 
 would write to him myself. Ask him also to continue his kind- 
 ness to me, and to let me entertain for him those feelings of ad- 
 miration which he always inspires, and that silent attachment 
 which his goodness gives me a right to feel. Remember me also 
 to M. Lacordaire. I can never lose the recollection of our stay 
 at Rome. 
 
 ' You speak of Montigny, and alas ! Montigny is sold.* You 
 cannot think how it grieves me, for without some fixed home in 
 one's own country, now that political changes have unsettled 
 everything, there is a great chance of being condemned to wander 
 about without end in a foreign land. How many castles in the 
 air I had built ! When the mind has fed for a while on the beau- 
 ties of this Italian earth and sky, our happiness is not complete 
 until we can go and live on them at home. I own that I often 
 get a fit of home-sickness. 
 
 'Tell me about Rio, and talk to me at great length about 
 yourself. Oh, my dear friend, I know you will one day be happy. 
 Believe me, I am right. ' Albert. 
 
 *P.S. — Pierre de Brezef said his first Mass the other day, to 
 the edification of every one.' 
 
 ALBERT'S JOURNAL. 
 
 * Naples, April 6th. — Went out at eight o'clock to buy a pre- 
 sent for Catiche, and ordered my own and my wife's cards, which 
 seems a wonderful point to have reached. Dined at Count 
 Stackelberg's, stayed till ten o'clock with Emma, and then went 
 to Alexandrine. They were not yet returned from the play. At 
 last they came in. I talked some time to Putbus, and then 
 everybody went away. Nothing can be compared to my pleasant 
 life for the last two years, and now my happiness seems complete. 
 Such a tie can never be severed. Came in at midnight. Found 
 Emma's room still full of people ; when they were gone I had a 
 good talk with her. And now I am in my own room, not sleepy, 
 but I have no fire, and the cold is driving me to bed. I like 
 sitting up in my room ; I like its silence and its solitude. No- 
 body sees me, and if Alexandrine is asleep, no one even thinks of 
 
 * To the Duke de Laval Montmorency. It now belongs to his grandson^ 
 Count de Levis Mirepoix. 
 
 t Now Bishop of Moulins. 
 
102 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 me. I like that sometimes. I have found a little poem, by Cam.- 
 pagna, on Buondelmonti, which I am going to finish. It is pretty 
 and interesting. How important at that time were the events of 
 private life ! Now everything is more commonplace ; the nobler 
 kind of passions seem asleep or dead. Selfishness creeps into 
 everything. Every one shifts for himself. Society would fall to 
 pieces but for an approaching regeneration, the tokens of which 
 we can discern, though confusedly. We experience the first 
 shock of the coming earthquake, but men's minds are gradually 
 preparing for it, and I incline to think that the new era will take 
 possession of a soil made to its hand, on which it can establish 
 itself without \dolence or commotion. The best pledge of its 
 stability will be Religion, and I believe it will become the soul of 
 our future, the last form of social transformation. The end we 
 shall reach as we grow more perfect, will bring us back to our 
 original destiny, light and innocence, happiness and Heaven. 
 
 'April 8th. — Bought something for Catiche at last; something 
 ugly, I am afraid, but it relieves me from suspense on the subject, 
 which is all that signifies. Ordered a Scotch cap, which is very 
 becoming : I am glad of it. I should like to look well. Lost 
 nearly the whole day. Went out riding. Felt in a detestable 
 mood. Finished Buondelmonti. He perishes by the hand of an 
 assassin on the day he is married to the woman he loves. An 
 enviable death, perhaps, for then no cloud can ever sully the 
 paradise of his happiness. 
 
 ' April 10th. — At this hour a week hence I shall have been 
 already married eleven hours. Spent the evening at the La- 
 poukhyns.' Alexandrine was sad at the idea of leaving her 
 mother, and shed tears. This will not last, I hope. But what 
 if I should find that I do not fill up the blank which her mother's 
 departure will cause ? I must either die or go and live in Russia, 
 which would be a kind of moral, intellectual, and possibly physi- 
 cal suicide. I am stupid, or mad, or something of the sort. I am 
 haunted by the fear that I shall make Alexandrine anything but 
 happy. I almost wish I were a monk. This is folly. ^ I am 
 wi'iting nonsense. I will bury my head in the pillow till I have 
 recovered a little common sense. 
 
 ' April 11th. — To the podesta. Then to Monsignor Porta, with 
 whom I conversed a long time. He wishes to repurchase the 
 convent at Amalfi.* I quite enter into his wishes, for never was 
 there a more appropriate spot for such a purpose. Oh, what has 
 the world to ofier in comparison with the pure and holy joys of 
 
 * The Capuchin convent at Amalfi had been turned into an inn. Monsignor 
 Porta was superior of the order. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 103 
 
 those blessed vocations, with that boundless love which loses 
 itself in Grod, and therefore can never end. 
 
 'April 12th. — Started at eight o'clock for Castellamare to ar- 
 range about our apartments, which will be very nice. Ah, what 
 happy days are in store for me ! Came back to Naples. A dinner 
 at Temple's* of a most intolerable length. After dinner to the 
 Lapoukhyns', where there was a long melo-dramatic scene. Put- 
 bus insisted on going away. Everybody tried to detain him. 
 He was obstinate; he was absurd. I love him dearly, and I 
 wish him with all my heart to look upon our house as his own. 
 He either will not or pretends not to believe that people care for 
 him, which is unjust and ridiculous. I wanted to stay with 
 Alexandrine, who was crying bitterly, but it was half-past twelve 
 o'clock. Nobody would go away, so I went home.' 
 
 alexandrine's story. 
 
 * Maurice Putbus actually left us that night. For a few days 
 I had been rather sad. I had not the least uneasiness as to ray 
 future happiness, and Albert was dearer to me than all the world 
 besides. But the near approach of the greatest event in one's 
 life naturally suggests grave thoughts, and then the idea of part- 
 ing with my mother haunted me like a spectre. Even Putbus's 
 departure had grieved me. To lose what I would fain have kept, 
 even though I thus obtained what was still more precious, pro- 
 duced a kind of vague depression, which was, however, always 
 dispelled by him who was the cause of these changes. Perhaps 
 it sprang also in part from the fact that in this life of uncertain- 
 ties, when one is very happy, any kind of change is looked upon 
 with dread. I had been so happy in my mother's drawing-room, 
 and afterwards in my own little room, thinking of what he had 
 said, of what he would say to me. Nevertheless, I did long for the 
 solemn moment when before God and man I should vow to love 
 him for ever. 
 
 ' On the 14th Albert dined with us, his mother and sisters, and 
 M. Valetti, the Protestant minister, of whom he makes the fol- 
 lowing mention in his journal : " He has quite the look of a 
 Protestant. Why did they cut themselves off from the Church, 
 tearing and rending Christendom to pieces by their divisions ? 
 Unity is so glorious. Oh ! why have they marred that cry of 
 love which ought to rise as if with one voice from earth to 
 Heaven ? " 
 
 * April 16th. — Albert took me to his father's house, and before 
 
 * Sir "William Temple, brother of Lord Palmerston, who was then, and for a 
 long time afterwards, English minister at Naples. 
 
104 A SISTEB'S STOBY. 
 
 Monsignor Porta I promised that all my cMldren should be Ca- 
 tholics. I remember that when I had to answer yes, Madame de 
 la Ferronnajs looked at me, as if she was afraid it would give me 
 pain, and she said gentlj : "You wish it to be so, do you not ? " 
 She little knew what pleasure it gave me to make this promise, 
 or with how great a joy it filled me. Strange to say, at no time 
 of my life would I have wished to have had Protestant children. 
 Rather than that I should have preferred their being Greeks, but 
 always, and above all, wished them to be Catholics. It was 
 about that time, perhaps that very day, that in talking to Pau- 
 line I told her that one birth, or any one of three deaths, would 
 at once decide me to become a Catholic. That meant my own 
 death (for I felt even then that I would not die in another reli- 
 gion), or my mother's, which would free me from the pain of 
 grieving her, or Albert's. I thought, too, that if once I had a 
 child, I should feel courage to bear my mother's grief. The most 
 sorrowful of all these conditions was the one which came to pass. 
 
 * On the 16th of April, the eve of our marriage, Albert dined 
 with us. In the evening I was some time with him alone, and 
 he spoke to me in a way that filled me with love and admiration. 
 Everything that he said and did, increased my affection and reve- 
 rence. I thought him more like an Angel than a man. I had 
 often been struck with this before, but never so deeply as on that 
 evening before our wedding day. It was not a mere earthly hap- 
 piness I felt, and not even my mother's sorrow, when I went 
 afterwards to give her a kiss in bed, could disturb it. When I 
 returned to my room, I wrote in my locked book these lines : 
 " Oh ! my God, to-morrow I am to be Albert's wife, and I grieve 
 that I am so unworthy of him in all respects. I beseech Thee, 
 in the name of Thy Son, Our Lord, to end this marriage-tie by 
 my death, if ever it should be burthensome to Albert. I also 
 commend to Thee my poor mother's, Albert's, and my brothers' 
 happiness — in this world, if possible, but above all in Heaven. 
 For myself I desire light, and that Albert and I may abide in Thy 
 love. Grant me my father's blessing — my father who is gone to 
 Heaven, and who loved me so much in this world. Oh ! my 
 God, I woul_d that all men might attain one day to perfect inno- 
 cence and love ! " 
 
 * Then I packed up this book, which was to be sent to Pauline, 
 with a note : 
 
 * " Dear Pauline, — I leave this book with you ; I prefer doing 
 so, and you will give it me back by-and-bye. It is now past 
 midnight. I feel sad on Mamma's account, but otherwise I en- 
 joy a delicious peace, thanks to Albert, who is an angel of whom 
 I am not worthy. You will be glad to hear I am in a frame of 
 
A SISTEB'S BTOBY. 105 
 
 mind which promises tranquillity, and even an immense happi- 
 ness for to-morrow. How can I be thankful enough to God ? 
 Good-night, my darling sisters. Good-bye till to-morrow. Love 
 me very much. Both of you pray for Mamma. 
 
 *" Alexandrine d'Alopeus." 
 
 ' The last words in my journal, at this period of my life, were, 
 ^' Bless us, oh, my God ! for Jesus Christ's sake ! " And as I 
 wished the last passage in my book of extracts to be also some- 
 thing holy, I chose this text : " Let every one give as he hath 
 determined in his heart, not with sadness or necessity, for God 
 loveth a cheerful giver." — 2 Corinthians ix. 7. Yet how far I was 
 from leading a Christian life. Sometimes I am afraid that it was 
 to punish me for my forgetfulness and negligence in thanking 
 Him for my happiness, that God took it from me. 
 
 ' The morning of our wedding-day, April 17th, Catiche woke 
 me at seven o'clock. I asked her immediately what kind of 
 weather it was. It did not rain, but the sky was cloudy. I was 
 superstitiously anxious that it should not rain on that day. I got 
 up, went to my mother, breakfasted with her, and then returned 
 to my room to dress. Before I had finished, Pauline and Eugenie 
 came in. They were both in sky blue ; my mother had on a white 
 cashmere gown, trimmed with red ; mine was white satin, trimmed 
 with lace, and a wreath of white roses and myrtle * fastened my 
 veil. My mother would not let me put on the pearl necklace she 
 had given me, on account of the German proverb : " Perlen deute^i 
 thrdnen " (Pearls betoken tears), but I wore a fine diamond cross, 
 Albert's present. I prized it as his gift, and because it is the 
 sign of our salvation. Oh Cross ! token and emblem of love and 
 suffering, how full of meaning you have seemed to me ever since ! 
 
 ' During the long process of dressing, my mother was very 
 much upset, but I felt calm and happy. Pauline still remembers 
 li tie things, I said, which made her laugh. She thought it so 
 odd I should be exactly like myself on that momentous day. 
 Albert came just as I was ready, and I went to my mother's room, 
 where I asked her blessing on my knees, and begged her to bless 
 me also in the name of my departed father. Then the marriage 
 contract was signed, and afterwards we all went to the Palazzo 
 Acton, where the Catholic ceremony was to take place. Just then 
 the sun came out, which I was glad of, but it was only a gleam, 
 which did not last long. 
 
 ' Monsignor Porta married us in the Chapel. He wore splendid 
 vestments, and his fine white beard gave him a venerable appear- 
 
 *■ Myrtle is in Germany the proper wreath for brides, and the Princess 
 Lapoukhyn had insisted on it for that reason. 
 
106 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 ance. I knelt beside Albert, and did as I was told. I was 
 quite ignorant of the Catbolic liturgy, and, as in all important 
 moments of my life, I felt bewildered, and hardly understood 
 what was going on. When the ceremony was over, I was sur- 
 rounded and embraced by everybody, and then we proceeded to 
 the Protestant Chapel, where M. Yaletti gave an excellent dis- 
 course, which, to Mamma's great delight, touched all the Ca- 
 tholics present. As we were driving to M. de la Ferronnays' 
 house. Mamma made Albert and me sit together on the back seat 
 of the carriage, and placed herself in jfront of us. There was a 
 great breakfast, and afterwards I went in my wedding gown to 
 see the Countess Stackelberg, who through some mistake had not 
 been invited. Then I came back to my mother's house, and to 
 the room which I was about to leave for ever. There I took off 
 my white gown, and put on a grey silk dress, and a straw bonnet 
 trimmed with pink, for our journey to Castellamare. Once ready 
 to go, I gave a sorrowful look at the people and places I was 
 leaving behind. I felt deeply moved, and asked to go once more 
 into all the rooms. I kissed my mother, and then everybody else. 
 At last, getting into the caleche with Albert, we drove away. It 
 felt to both of us like a dream I ' 
 
PAET II. 
 
 *What doth he know who hath not been tried?' — Eccles. xxxiv. 9. 
 
 F this story were a novel, or if it were only meant to 
 preserve the remembrance of happy days, it would 
 now be drawing to a close ; but those whose lives are 
 here related are not imaginary persons, they were 
 Christian men and women, who were accounted 
 worthy to suffer, and the memory of whose earthly happiness is 
 only fraught with blessings, because it was received with thank- 
 fulness of heart, and surrendered without a murmur. Therefore, 
 the story proceeds — I might almost say now begins, so much 
 does the importance of the sequel exceed what has already been 
 told. We had not, however, arrived at the time of trial, when a 
 few days after the marriage of Albert and Alexandrine, we joined 
 them at Castellamare, where they were established in a charming 
 house. Indeed, that summer was one of the most joyful times we 
 ever spent, but though we did not know it, our happiness had 
 then reached its meridian, and never did we all meet again in 
 this world. 
 
 A flight of steps, overarched by a trellice of vines and roses, 
 led from the road to that pretty house. The ground floor was 
 inhabited by Albert and Alexandrine ; Charles and Emma 
 occupied the first floor, my parents, Fernand, my sisters, and I, 
 the second. Each set of apartments had a balcony, and we could 
 pass from one to another by means of an out-of-door staircase. 
 We all assembled for meals, and often also read together, for we 
 were always delighted at any opportunity of meeting. Never, I 
 believe, were there brothers, sisters, brothers-in-law, and sisters- 
 in-law, so gladly and cordially united as we were. 
 
 It was in the course of that summer that I was married, and 
 the event interested the dear people about me very nearly as 
 much as it did myself, Happy days followed the one in which 
 my marriage was finally decided upon. One of them I particu- 
 larly remember as having been as calm and blissful as any I ever 
 spent. I have already said that Albert and Alexandrine occupied 
 the ground floor of our house. Their windows opened on a short 
 flight of steps, which led to the garden. On that evening, which 
 I so well recollect, their room was full of light, flowers, and 
 
108 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 music. Eugenie was singing, and as we sat on the steps outside, 
 we listened whilst chatting to her wonderfully beautiful voice. 
 "We enjoyed the perfume of the orange flowers and roses, and 
 gazed on the matchless view, then illuminated by the moon and 
 stars, and also by the flames of Vesuvius, from whose crater a 
 broad stream of fire was descending towards the plain, in the 
 direction of Ottegano. Ah, we were all indeed perfectly happy 
 at that moment ! The joy of Albert and Alexandrine seemed a 
 foretaste and a pledge of our own, while ours heightened what they 
 felt. Dear Eugenie, with her overflowing affection and sympathy, 
 was as gay as a bird and as bright as a sunbeam. Fernand also 
 enlivened by liis merriment the graver thoughts which important 
 events might have induced. We generally spent the evenings in 
 Charles' and Emma's room, whose cordial sympathy was all we 
 could wish. They had the largest of our three balconies, and 
 there we all used to sit, and remained often far into the nigh1>— :- 
 those Italian nights which never pall upon one, and which are 
 m.ore glorious even than the days. I think my father and mother 
 had never been so fully satisfied, or so entirely enjoyed, seeing 
 their children gathered around them. But, alas ! we were on the 
 mountain top. We had attained the highest point of earthly 
 happiness, and it must be owned, that never was summit gilded 
 with a brighter hght. If it can be said of happiness that it is too 
 great and perfect to last, it might indeed be asserted of ours at 
 that time. But the cloud which was soon to darken our horizon 
 was already casting its shadow upon us. 
 
 We had had already one alarm about Albert, but anxiety, the 
 destroyer of human joys, had not yet taken possession of our 
 hearts, and we soon resumed the careless security which belongs 
 to inexperience. It was only when Alexandrine's trial had reached 
 its final term, that mounting, as it were, from one anguish to an- 
 other, to the first uneasiness that had troubled her peace, she traced 
 it to the day when, for the first time, she had seen Albert put his 
 handkerchief to his mouth, and take it away stained with blood. 
 Aiid that had been ten days after her marriage. Ten untroubled, 
 peaceful, cloudless days. Ten days of actual and full enjoyment 
 of the most perfect earthly happiness, thus much and no more 
 was given to Alexandrine. And yet her life may be called even 
 in that respect a blessed and privileged one, for are there many 
 who obtain on earth, even for a single moment, the perfect accom- 
 plishment of their hopes and desires ? In her case this did 
 happen. She possessed for one instant all she had ever coveted. 
 Not only did she find in her husband the qualities she most 
 esteemed, and had nearly despaired to meet with in any one 
 person ; not only did they feel for each other the most deep and 
 
A SISTEB'S STORY. 109 
 
 ardent love ; but in other comparatively unimportant respects, 
 yet to a certain degree essential to perfect happiness, her wishes 
 were fully gratified. Having never had any sisters, and seen 
 little of her brothers, living always alone with her parents, she 
 had painfully felt this isolation, and had always wished to form 
 one of a large and united family. She had been attracted towards 
 us from the first time she and I had met, long before she knew 
 Albert, and afterwards Eugenie became as great a friend as my- 
 self. She had also learned to love and admire my father, and 
 was tenderly and reverently attached to my mother. It is certain 
 that the happiness of being their daughter and our sister, added 
 to that of being Albert!s wife. And then he belonged to the 
 country she preferred to all others, for to marry a Frenchman 
 had been her favourite wish ; and lastly, her new name pleased 
 her fancy. So that it may be said her lot was exactly what she 
 would have chosen for herself, if she could have planned her life 
 as she pleased. As to wealth, which she certainly did not possess, 
 she had never coveted it, and in after life she gave ample proof 
 that this contempt of money, common enough among young girls, 
 but which is hardly to be taken into account as long as it remains 
 a mere theory, and a theory maintained in the midst of the actual 
 enjoyment of all the luxuries of life, — ^this contempt of money, I 
 say, was in her case sincere and real. 
 
 Though brought up in a house abounding in all the magnifi- 
 cence and profusion habitual to the Bussians, she never departed 
 for an instant from her simple habits, and from her marriage-day 
 to the hour of her death, by dint of method and economy, always 
 managed to make their moderate income meet their expenses. 
 She knew how to join elegance and good taste with a perfect 
 simplicity of life; and, moreover, always exhibited a noble gene- 
 rosity. Later on, indeed, she gave up everything she possessed, 
 but it was charity and not necessity that caused the sacrifice of 
 means which her wise economy had ever husbanded. 
 
 The symptoms in Albert which I have mentioned, and which 
 at first had no serious results, were soon followed by others, 
 which led to the decision that the air of Castellamare did not 
 suit him, and he was advised to spend some time at Sorrento. 
 This separa.tion broke up — in a great measure — our delightful 
 life, and it was therefore with keen regret that, on the 27th of 
 July, we accompanied them to the port of Castellamare, where 
 they were to embark. The magnificent road which now runs 
 from Castellamare to Sorrento, did not then exist, and it was 
 necessary to travel, if by land, on horses or mules, but most 
 people generally preferred the sea, as being the least fatiguing. 
 That evening the weather was stormy, with a cloudy sky, and 
 
no A SISTER'S STOBY. 
 
 when we saw tlie little barque tossing on the rough and gloomy 
 sea, it looked so melancholy, that Eugenie burst into tears. This 
 feeling on her part was overstrained, for we were to see them 
 again the next day but one. But if her sadness was a foreboding, 
 it was assuredly justified, for this parting was but the prelude to 
 many others more sad, and that day brought to a close, for Albert 
 and Alexandrine, the sweet family Hfe she had so pined for, and 
 which both of them delighted in. 
 
 Not many hours later, the boatman brought back the following 
 note from Alexandrine : 
 
 *T0 MY SISTERS. 
 
 ' Sorrento, Villa Cesari. 
 * My three dear sisters, Pauline, Eugenie, and Emma, if I did 
 not love you so much, I certainly should not write to you, for I 
 am quite " knocked up," * Just fancy my being sea- sick ! But 
 my enchantment with this house and a delicious tea have revived 
 me so much, that I can write you a few Hues. You cannot think 
 how exactly I am lodged to my taste — mio genio. Were you a 
 little frightened for us ? It certainly looked very adventurous, 
 but I was too sea- sick to enjoy the romantic situation in the least. 
 I hope our boatman took back the note which Albert scribbled 
 by the lightning flashes, to say we arrived safe and sound. It 
 takes an hour-and-a-half to get to the shore of Cassano, and at 
 least another half-hour to our Villa Cesari. To-morrow I expect 
 to see Alexander, and the day after my little Eugenie and her 
 father. It is charming to think of these sort of meetings every- 
 day. I have been pining already for them, in spite of the delights 
 of this place. My dear little Eugenie, be so good as to find out 
 to-morrow if there are any letters from Mamma for me. Having 
 no news of her spoils my pleasure. May God bless you all ! I 
 hope soon to see you again. Do not give our direction to tire- 
 some people, for we are now delightfully secreted. Do you think 
 we do not miss you ? Ah ! ah ! Your 'Alexandrine.' 
 
 It is evident that she had not felt the same depression that day 
 as we had. But later on, on inserting this letter in her story, 
 she added these words : ' I never, perhaps, after that day, vo-ote 
 anything with such gaiety of heart as this note.' We all went 
 to see them two days afterwards, and found them quite settled in 
 their house, and the whole time of their stay at Sorrento, either 
 Eugenie, Fernand, or I, and sometimes all three of us together, 
 went with my father and mother to see them, so that there was 
 no real separation betiiveen us, and the month passed rapidly 
 
 * The English words are in the original. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. IIJ 
 
 away. But during that whole time Albert was ailing ; once he 
 spat blood again, and the doctors gave it as their opinion, that 
 instead of staying with us for the winter, he must leave ^N'aples 
 and settle at Pisa. This was anything l3ut cheering news, but 
 we were so steeped, as it were, in happiness, that anxiety for him 
 could not easily take possession of our minds. 
 
 During their stay at Sorrento, Alexandrine's journal, as well 
 as Albert's letters, were gay, but that cheerfulness was now and 
 then dimmed by painfal thoughts, which could scarcely be called 
 forebodings, for the evil threatened was but too evident, and 
 when fear took possession of Alexandrine's mind, it was the sad 
 reality which impressed her, in spite of all her efforts to believe 
 that her present bright life would last. It was this terror, these 
 melancholy forebodings, which made her shrink from the sight 
 of a funeral. She thus describes this feeling : 
 
 ' Living as we do close to a Church, funerals often pass under 
 our window. It is the custom here to leave the face of the dead 
 uncovered, and to place a flower between their lips. I had seen 
 several go by in this way without being particularly affected ; but 
 now' (after Albert had been ill, she meant), 'when I went to 
 look at them, I had a vague, dreadful feeling, which I dare not 
 own to myself, and I remember that it used to give me a kind 
 of superstitious satisfaction when the corpse proved to be that of 
 an old man, a woman, or a little child. I was so afraid of its 
 being a young man.* 
 
 In the same month, her anxiety, and what she expressively 
 calls the * prose ' which sickness casts upon love and life, caused 
 her to ' breathe one sigh after eternity,' and to utter the moum- 
 fal cry : ' Oh ! my God ! Is there then only the shadow of happi- 
 ness on this earth ? Can nothing be delightful but what is seen 
 from a distance ? and must all we lay hold of lose its beauty and 
 rich colouriug ? Is the love of Grod, then, the only true poetry, 
 and are we so miserable that it cannot suffice us ? Must we al- 
 ways thirst after earthly idols and ideal objects ? Oh, are we not 
 often consumed with the desire for a country where we can be 
 sure of what we see, certain of loving for ever, have no vain 
 fears, and may cherish without misgivings a heart Hke unto our 
 own ? Heaven — if we ever reach it — will be such a country as 
 this. We long intensely for it, and yet, through weakness and 
 sloth, we do nothing to make it our own ! ' 
 
 The following letter, without date, was written from Sor- 
 rento : 
 
'112 A SISTER'S STOEY. 
 
 ALBERT TO M. MARTIN DE NOIRLIEU. 
 
 * Sorrento. 
 
 ' How glad I was to see your Landwrifcing again ! T never 
 entertained a doujbt of your friendship, but your long silence made 
 me afraid I had offended you. I did not know your direction, 
 and already two or three of my letters have remained unanswered. 
 
 ' I must tell you that I am happier than I can express. Dear 
 sir, and most excellent friend, I regretted exceedingly that you 
 were not present at my marriage, and I much wish you were 
 with us now, for I should then eagerly treasure up your words, 
 to instil them afterwards into a soul which I have not wisdom 
 enough myself to cultivate. Alexandrine is not the woman to 
 yield merely to influence, or to be led only by her tastes, and 
 however much she may be drawn towards our faith, her con- 
 science requires some other warrant than the impulse of her 
 heart. Your words would have thrown so much light on our 
 minds. I think often with emotion of our conversations, which, 
 alas ! I made but little use of at the time, for we are apt to 
 neglect the treasures within our reach, and it is only when they 
 are taken from us that we discern their full value. I often loot 
 hack to the time I spent with you, and feel deeply the good 
 effects it ought to have produced upon my life. Now, I would 
 beg of you, as we cannot meet and converse, to supply in some 
 degree for this, by writing to us. God only knows when my 
 angehc wife will be actually a Catholic. Meanwhile, I am glad 
 to see her frequent our Churches of her own accord, and take de- 
 light in doing so. On Sunday, she seems to reckon it a duty to 
 hear Mass. But even if she were fully convinced, there would 
 still be the difficulty of leaving the religion professed by her 
 mother, whom she tenderly loves, and who has hitherto strongly 
 opposed her doing so. We must trust in God for this, and hope. 
 
 ' We are now reading a book which came out some time ago, 
 and which perhaps you know, called " Travels of an Irish Gentle- 
 man in Search of a Religion," with notes, by Thomas Moore. It 
 goes back to the primitive Christian times, and demonstrates by 
 authoritative testimony, which he quotes, that Catholicism is the 
 constitution, so to speak, of Christianity, and that what we believe 
 at this day was the faith of the Apostles. It proves that Fast- 
 ing, Transubstantiation, the Supremacy of the Pope, Mass, Oral 
 Tradition, Reverence for Images, Prayers for the Dead, Purga- 
 tory, and Confession, made part of the faith and practice of 
 primitive times. He also dwells on the discipline of the Secret 
 observed among the early Christians, which has no doubt often 
 led to false interpretations, and furnished Protestants with argu- 
 mencb which it is, however, easy enough to co72fute. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 113 
 
 ' I hope yon have received a lettei- from my sister Pauline ; but 
 in case it has not reached you, I will repeat the news it contained. 
 She told you in it of her approaching marriage, with which we are 
 all very much pleased. It may perhaps appear strange that such 
 strict Catholics as we all are should be marrying Protestants ; 
 but we have good reason to be thankful if God makes use of us 
 to bring others to the love of the Church and the true faith. 
 There is no vanity in saying this, for our share in these conver- 
 sions is a very indirect one, and they would have taken place 
 even without our co-operation. My future brother-in-law is a 
 Catholic in heart, and he will be received into the Church soon 
 after his marriage. It is only on account of the false interpreta- 
 tions which might be given to this act that he delays it awhile. 
 I wish the same blessing were as near at hand for my wife, but I 
 fear that happy day is still distant. If you had spent this winter 
 in Italy, how happy it would have made my sister and myself, to 
 receive the nuptial blessing at your hands. Monsignor Acton* 
 will take your place, and is coming from Rome for the occasion. 
 He has known Pauline since she was a child. 
 
 ' We have seen M. de Lamennais' work,t which, as you may 
 believe, has made some noise ; but, thanks to the frivolity of a 
 thoroughly worldly society, this publication, which has caused so 
 intense an excitement in other countries, was forgotten here in 
 three days. Although I shared the general surprise which this 
 book created, it pained me to see such a man judged by such 
 opponents. What a strange mixture of fury and tenderness 
 reigns in every page of it. Does not the poetry of this work a 
 little excuse the stormy bursts of a fiery zeal and ardent imagina- 
 tion ? I must own to you that I listen with some pleasure to 
 these anticipations of a new era. Will not selfishness at last 
 disappear from the world ? And are we not right to thirst after 
 the refreshing dew which will soften our hearts ? Efface from 
 M. de Lamennais' pages their angry violence, and then tell me 
 if his hopes are not yours ? 
 
 ' A work by Silvio Pellico has also just appeared, which forms a 
 striking contrast by its angelic sweetness to that we are speaking 
 of. The whole life of man is indeed contained in these words : — 
 "Dei doveri degli uomini."J The peace of the author's soul 
 seems to pass into our own, while his overflowing tenderness 
 draws from us purifying tears. How I wish, dear M. I'Abbe, I 
 could get your book, for you too are one of the men whose purity 
 of mind and peace of heart lift us above this world. I long to 
 read it, for if yoa remember, I witnessed its beginnings. 
 
 * Afterwards Cardinal, t Paroles cCiin Croyant. \ Of the Duties of Man. 
 
lU A SISTEE'S STOBY. 
 
 'Farewell, and forgive this long rambling letter. I can no 
 longer enjoy those conversations by moonlight in a room on the 
 third floor of a Roman palace ; * nor do I now hear that voice 
 which used to fill me sometimes for hours with peace and holy joy.' 
 
 Albert and his wife returned to Castellamare a little before the 
 end of the month, and on the 19th of August, Eugenie wrote in 
 her journal : — ' Dined at Lady Mary Paget's,t at Boccapiano,' 
 (the next villa to ours, taken by the Marquis of Anglesea and his 
 family). 'After dinner we sat on the terrace looking at Albert 
 and Alexandrine, Pauline and Augustus, and conversed with Lady 
 Mary about French and English marriages. Those two pairs of 
 lovers came back to the house, walking slowly like old people, 
 and stopping now and then to converse more at their ease.' Alex- 
 andrine, after quoting these words of Eugenie, adds : — ' Oh, I well 
 remember that promenade a quatre ! I sat a long time that day 
 gazing on the most beautiful view in the world with Albert, who 
 was often obliged to stop and rest.' The other two were to be 
 married in a week. We were all thoroughly happy and comfort- 
 able together, talking and making plans, the pleasure of which 
 was only in my case a little spoilt by anxiety about the future. She 
 goes on to relate that two days afterwards Albert was a little pro- 
 voked with her because she would not interest herself in a book 
 he was reading, her attention being at that moment engrossed by 
 the gown she was to wear at my marriage, and was just trying 
 on. She had gone out into the balcony in her pink attire, in order 
 that my two other brothers on the terrace below might judge of 
 the effect. She very quickly, however, went back to Albert, and 
 began reading with him again, that he might not suppose she was 
 indifferent to what pleased him. 
 
 I was married on the 28th of August, and my father and mo- 
 ther returned to Castellamare from Naples a few hours after we 
 left for Rome, on the same day. My poor Eugenie felt in going 
 back into the room we had so long shared together something of 
 the same grief I experienced later, when visiting old scenes from 
 which she had for ever departed. She wrote to me immediately. 
 This letter is the first of a correspondence which long subsequent 
 absences swelled to a considerable size. It must find, as well as 
 many others, a place in this record, but I own that if there is a 
 moment when I feel unequal to the task I have undertaken, it is 
 when I approach this too dear, too tender, too precious memory. 
 
 * Palazzo PamfiH, in the Piazza Navona, where M. Martin de Noirlieu 
 lodged. 
 
 t Afterwards Lady Sandwich, who died young and much regretted. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 115 
 
 I have known other and as deep sorrows, but this particular grief 
 is accompanied by an amount of emotion which I can neither 
 master nor give way to without suffering. It seems to take entire 
 possession of me, and I can do nothing but weep. It is not speak- 
 ing of her which so deeply affects me. I delight in describing 
 Eugenie, in painting her such as she was. No ; what moves me 
 is to. recall her tenderness, her passionate affection, too excessive 
 indeed, but so true and deep that I can never think of it as long 
 as I live without the fondest regrets and the most poignant remi- 
 niscences of a past happiness, which I shall never regain except 
 in Heaven. 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 ' Castellamare, August 28th, 1834. Midnight and quite alone. 
 
 * My Pauline, can it be possible ? They tell me to go to bed, 
 but I cannot. I thought I had grown used to the thought of this 
 separation, and that I should not miss you «o very much, but 
 how could I fancy such a thing ? The house is dreadful without 
 you, and as to this room — ah ! Pauline, this room without you — 
 I cannot bear it ! But it is very wrong of me to tell you all this. 
 After your departure (the word sounds so strange to me!), my 
 father, Emma, Alexandrine, everybody except Mamma and t, 
 went out. I began to feel very lonely, and went about kissing 
 every single thing I could find of yours— your dear little gloves, 
 your nosegay — weeping, weeping all the time tears enough to 
 make me blind ! Then Mamma and I took your dresses to the 
 Palazzo Serra Capriola. It was dark, but as far as I could see, 
 the rooms looked pretty. When we left we went round by Mon- 
 signor Porta's to thank him.* Ah ! my Pauline, there again I 
 began to cry. He talked a long time about you both, and sent 
 you his blessing again, promising to pray for you gyqyj day. 
 Then we left him and came home. Dinner was ready, and up- 
 stairs the drawing-room was lit up, which did so remind me of 
 the first part of the time we were here. How quickly it has 
 passed ! 
 
 ' Pauline, I hear such strange noises ; I am afraid of being 
 alone. As soon as I came back to this room I knew that I should 
 hate the sight of it. ... I can hardly tell you how I feel. I keep 
 walking up and down, and calling out your name, without the 
 least attempt at self-control. It is very wrong ; and then I re- 
 proach myself for saying all this to you. But never mind it, 
 darling, you know this is the first day. I really am frightened. 
 ... I think I shall go to Mamma. . . . but all the doors are shut ! 
 Pauline, my own Pauline ! . . . no, I will not say what I was 
 
 * Monsignor Porta married them in place of Monsignor Acton. 
 I 2 
 
116 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 going to say ; and, indeed, it was not true, for I should have 
 been very sorry if you had not gone away. I wonder where you 
 are now ? They said you would be at Mola by midnight, and it 
 is midnight now. I do hope this month will pass very quickly ! 
 I think I will go to bed, but I am afraid ; Vesuvius is making 
 such a strange mournful noise. Good night, for I believe I am 
 going to begin to cry again, I feel so miserable, and it is so bad 
 of me ! But it is only just the coming back to this house — to 
 this room — without you. Good night, Pauline. Good night, 
 Augustus. Oh, I do love you both ! My dear love, I have read 
 what you have written in my journal. You are a darling a 
 thousand times over ! ' 
 
 'August 29th. Seven o'clock in the morning. 
 
 ' I am much better. I am not going to cry any more, and am 
 getting all right again. When I think of the day when I shall 
 see you, my heart beats so fast. I could not have believed that 
 this separation would have made me so wretched. Vesuvius 
 goes on burning up everything. We are going to-night as far as 
 the lava. It is a long way ofi".' 
 
 ' Same Day. 
 
 ' My dear love, I am better. I have not cried for some time. 
 I wonder if I ought to love you so much. It almost amounts to 
 idolatry. Alexandrine has just brought me your picture, which 
 made me begin again, and I have not yet recovered myself. Ah, 
 your sweet face ! your dear eyes ! Please come back soon ! Let 
 me see them again. Dear Augustus, it will be in three weeks, 
 will it not ? Not one day later ? ' 
 
 ' Friday Evening. 
 
 ' Emma, Charles, and Fernand are gone to Vesuvius, but I said 
 I was tired. The real truth was that I should not have had time to 
 write to you, and I do not care for anything else. I am not yet 
 as I should be. Just now, at the thought of getting a letter from 
 you, and of seeing your handwriting again, my eyes filled with 
 tears. My father bids me tell you that he kisses your picture 
 twenty times a day, that he loves you, and sends you his bless- 
 ing. My mother is very sad, but she loves you, ah, so much ! 
 She is so gentle, so good. I S-^e no apparent reason why this 
 letter should ever come to an end. Last night 1 felt dreadfully 
 lonely, and then the strange face of the new lady's-maid annoyed 
 me. I like Saunois* better. I was glad to see her this morning, 
 she is so fond of you. I have found all your dear little shoes, 
 and was sorry to part with them. My dear brother, do, do come 
 back soon ! ' 
 
 * Madame de ia Ferronnays' maid had gone with Mrs. Craven. — (Tbans- 
 
 lATOE.) 
 
A SISTEB'S STORY. 117 
 
 ' Same Day, midnight. 
 ' Good nigHt. I am pretty well to-night, not too sad. My 
 horrid fit of selfishness is over. I have left ofi" crying, I am 
 glad that yon are happy, and sometimes the thought of it makes 
 me wild with joy. I spent a long time on the terra?e, thinking 
 of the time when we used to be chaperoning you there. I sup- 
 pose you do not regret those days ? Emma has just come in, and 
 says that the stream of lava was magnificent, but that it was ter- 
 rible to see the immense crowd of poor people who were driven 
 out of their houses. Thank God ! the eruption is subsiding. It 
 is two o'clock, and I cannot manage to feel sleepy. Mamma told 
 me when she went away to kiss you for her. My own Pauline^ 
 I have been praying, and they were good prayers, for they were 
 for you. God bless you ! ' 
 
 ' Saturday, August 30th. 
 
 * How do you do, Pauline ? I slept well, and only feel a little re- 
 maining sadness, which I try to shake off, and wish to get rid of. I 
 have already been praying for you and for your husband, for you are 
 now always together in my mind. I am very sorry Alexandrine is 
 going away.* She is so kind and so affectionate to me, and par- 
 ticularly so since you are gone. They go to Naples this evening, 
 and I with them, but I return to-morrow by sea. On Monday, 
 at two o'clock in the morning, I am to go with Marie de Morte- 
 martf to Capri, and home by Sorrento. I do not much fancy it, 
 for I am afraid of being sea- sick. It seems so strange to make 
 all these plans, or to go anywhere without you. I cannot get 
 used to it. I shall go on with my letter at Naples. I love you, 
 my own Pauline. I feel a real pining to see you again.' 
 
 ' Naples, Sunday. 
 
 * Here we are at the Vittoria. Albert was a little unwell be- 
 fore they started, which made us anxious. I shall be glad to hear 
 of their arrival at Pisa. I am writing as closely as I can to save 
 space, and perhaps you will not be able to read it. I had your 
 little note from Aversa. Ah ! my dear Paule, what happiness to 
 see your handwriting ! Well, I must leave off", but it will not be 
 for long. My dearest love, I love you almost too much. Good- 
 bye, my dear brother. Good-bye, my two dear ones. My father 
 says that at the bottom of each page I am to put, as the burdea 
 of my song, that he loves you ; and as for my mother, poor dearest 
 mother, she thinks of nothing but you. Good-bye.' 
 
 * To Pisa. 
 
 t A daughter of the late Prince Eorghese, married to the Vicomte de Mor- 
 temart. 
 
118 A SISTEE'S STORY. 
 
 Eugenie was right about mj mother. She loved us all dearly, 
 but if there was the least preference in her heart for one above 
 another of her children, it was for me, and it seemed to me, too, 
 that I loved her more entirely than the rest, with a keener appre- 
 ciation, and above all a more unbounded confidence. Even in 
 childhood it was so complete that I never could conceal from her 
 a single thought, even for an hour ; and I remember that when I 
 was about fifteen or sixteen years old, and she went out without 
 me in the evening, I often wrote down all that I had been think- 
 ing of while she was away, and pinned this kind of examination 
 of conscience on the pincushion of her dressing-table, that she 
 might find and read it as soon as she came in. I could not have 
 gone to sleep in peace with the thought that she did not know 
 everything in my mind. This will show at once what she was, 
 for there are not many mothers, even amongst the best, who 
 inspire their children with a desire to disclose their feelings to 
 them with such entire openness. No ordinary sharo of kindness, 
 judgment, or sympathy will suffice to establish this perfect trust, 
 which was the blessing and safeguard of my own youth. How- 
 ever loving and submissive a daughter may be, it is not always 
 in her power to feel a confidence which depends on the character 
 of the mother far more than that of the child. 
 
 Oh, my own mother ! when I think that you are now where 
 yoiir humility can no longer shield you from praise, nor your 
 self-denial sacrifice your own happiness, where every virtue is 
 rewarded, and even suffering compensated, there are moments 
 when I am filled with an intense joy, and I feel reconciled to your 
 loss, nay, almost glad to live without you. 
 
 We came back from Rome at the beginning of October, and 
 going first to Castellamare, where my parents still were, returned 
 afterwards to Naples with the whole family. They lived that 
 3'ear at the Palazzo Gallo, and we at the Palazzo Serra Capriola, 
 where for the first time I took possession of an apartment of my 
 own. Eugenie spent several hours every day with us ; it was 
 almost like living under the same roof, and that winter would 
 have been as pleasant as the preceding one, but for the absence 
 of Albert and Alexandrine, whom we sadly missed. They had 
 arrived at Pisa on the 9th of September, and established them- 
 selves in the Casa Soldaini on the Lung'Arno. At first Alex- 
 andrine was rather depressed by this banishment from the family 
 circle which sh^' so delighted in. She mentions this transient 
 feeling with something like self-reproach. 
 
 * I do not think it was any want of love for Albert that made 
 me feel a little melancholy on our first settling at Pisa, after the 
 very gay and pleasant family life we had been leading, for he felt 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 119 
 
 it also during our first days in this house, which although the 
 most cheerful in Pisa, is not to be compared in that respect with 
 the one we had at Naples. But I remember with pleasure that 
 this did not last long, and that at the end of a few days we were 
 charmed with our little rooms, and did not wish for other com- 
 pany than our two selves. This was better, I think, than if we 
 had been amused at the beginning by the novelty of living alone 
 together, and had ended by being bored with it. Indeed, I never 
 reproach myself for having liked to live with my husband in the 
 midst of his family, even better than alone with him. The hours 
 spent all together heightened the enjoyment of our occasional 
 tetes-a-tetes. The meals, too, were merrier. In short, I have 
 always delighted in a numerous family and a set of intimate 
 friends, and so did Albert. One kind of affection does not inter- 
 fere with another. Our souls are made in the image of God, and 
 there is something even Divinely infinite in our capacity for 
 loving.' 
 
 Some time after their arrival in Pisa Alexandrine was some- 
 what ailing. Her indisposition was ascribed to a cause which 
 did not unfortunately exist, for she never enjoyed the happiness 
 of being a mother. It was at that time that Albert wrote to his 
 mother-in-law as follows : — 
 
 ' My head is full of that thought, and yet it may prove, after all, 
 to be a groundless hope. Almighty God seems, as it were, to try 
 my feelings. May His blessed will be done ! He knows what is 
 best, what is most desirable for us. So if this blessing is vouch- 
 safed to me, I shall indeed be overjoyed ; but if it be denied, I 
 shall still be grateful that my dearest wife is spared sufferings 
 which perhaps might be too much for her, and in any case shall 
 say : " Thy will be done." ' 
 
 In the same letter, speaking of his brother-in-law's conversion, 
 he says : 
 
 ' He has changed his religion, but not the least from the 
 motives which the world ascribes. Neither my father, my mother, 
 nor Pauline would have approved of this step if such unworthy 
 motives had prompted it. Such an act would be exceedingly 
 impious if it were not the result of a thorough conviction. While 
 I feel that the dictates of conscience must be imperious when once 
 we perceive the truth to be on one side and not on the other, so 
 I blame and earnestly deprecate conversions arising from human 
 considerations, whether of interest or affection.' 
 
 Alexandrine's mother, who had been up to that time so tolerant, 
 
120 A SISTEE'S STORY. 
 
 so indulgent, and who had gone so far during Albert's illness as 
 to pray in our Churches, and burn tapers before our images, 
 kneeling with a devotion very similar to that of Catholics, had 
 entirely changed in that respect since her daughter's marriage ; 
 and far from seeming to admit that she might one day wish to 
 embrace her husband's rehgion, she wrote to Alexandrine that if 
 she should ever take such a step, it would ' nail her up in her 
 coffin.' Sad words, which contributed not a little to make Alex- 
 andrine struggle with the conviction which was gradually making 
 its way into her soul. Alas ! poor unhappy mother, never was a 
 prophecy less justified by the event ! l!^ot only did she live to 
 see this dreaded conversion, not only did she witness during 
 several years the holy and pious life which Alexandrine led after 
 her reception into the Church ; but the most unforeseen dis- 
 pensation doomed her to survive this beloved daughter. If after 
 her death any human consolation was capable of assuaging her 
 grief, it was the remembrance of those virtues and good works 
 which under the influence of the true faith threw a halo round 
 her memory approaching that of sanctity. 
 
 But at the time of which we are speaking, Alexandrine had 
 not arrived at the sort of conviction which triumphs over every 
 obstacle. It seemed, on the contrary, as if, since she had been 
 surrounded by Catholics, a sort of antagonism was roused in 
 her which she had never before felt or shown. She wrote to me 
 in this spirit a number of letters, full of objections and attacks, 
 which I answered as well as I could, and Avith all the freedom 
 which had ever existed between us on this subject. She appeared 
 on the whole to sympathise less with us about religion since she 
 had become one of us. And yet, as she herself mentions in her 
 journal, it would never have entered into her head at Pisa to 
 inquire for a Protestant church, and she delighted in going to 
 Mass with Albert. 'A singular state of religious independence,' 
 she remarks, ' consistent enough, however, with the belief I then 
 possessed.' I find on this point the following passage from one 
 of my letters copied into her story : 
 
 ' I managed at last to decipher the part of your letter which 
 referred to your religious difficulties. As to the primary one, 
 that terrible separation from your mother, which you are always 
 talking of, there is only one answer to make. Of course, nothing 
 could be more dreadful than such a thought, but you always lose 
 sight of what is our belief on that point. We hold that our 
 religion is the true one, and consequently the only one, for you 
 must admit that Grod cannot have revealed two different truths. 
 We therefore think that to be safe we must be Catholics, unless 
 in perfect good faith we remain in error without ever having had 
 
A SISTEE'S STOBY. 121 
 
 the least doubt on the subject. Well, I thoroughly believe your 
 mother to be in that state of mind, and I am equally persuaded 
 that you are not. I do not think a serious doubt with regard to 
 Protestantism has ever crossed her mind. Can you say the same 
 of yourself? And may not God excuse her for remaining in a 
 religion she believes, and condemn you for persevering in doing 
 so when you have not the same excuse ? In one word, would 
 you not be taking the surest means of meeting her in the next 
 world by obeying the dictates of conscience in becoming a Catholic, 
 as she apparently does by remaining a Protestant ? I have 
 already submitted to you this argument, but you forget it, and 
 always repeat your objections, and also the story of your Pagan 
 king,* which does not apply to the case ; since, according to 
 what I just said, his parents, supposing them to have been Pagans 
 in good faith, might strictly speaking have been saved, whereas 
 he liimself, for persevering in a worship he knew to be false, 
 would justly have been lost.' 
 
 In another letter I said again : — 
 
 ' I see with regret that a Protestant atmosphere seemed to 
 incline you more favourably towards us than a Catholic one. 
 But when do you mean to make up your mind ? I want to know 
 if you really think that it is not necessary to decide, and that you 
 can go through life without being positively Catholic or Protestant. 
 I should be better satisfied to see you one or the other, so that 
 you were really in good faith.' 
 
 Alexandrine expatiates thus on this point : — 
 
 ' Pauline was right in saying that a Protestant atmosphere 
 inclined me more favourably towards their side, and that after 
 my marriage I became more disposed to argue against their faith. 
 Alas ! this is human nature. Being the only one of my relig-ion 
 in their family, I felt as if it was looked down upon, and that I 
 ought to stand up for it. I had never, however, this feeling with 
 Albert. I had the deepest reverence for his faith and piety, and 
 ho never seemed as if he wished to attack my religion. He only 
 showed a constant and affectionate desire that we might one day 
 have the same faith. I shared this hope without any very definite 
 ideas on the subject, for at that time I should not have ventured 
 to take any step in that direction on my mother's account.' 
 
 At the end of October Albert had the unexpected pleasure of 
 
 * Alexandrine had found somewhere the story of a Pagan king, who, though 
 convinced of the truth of Christianity, would not he baptised because he pre- 
 ferred, so he said, to be condemned with his parents than saved without them. 
 She thought this very generous, and was inclined to agree with him ! 
 
122 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 hearing that M. de Montalembert was in Italy, and about to pay 
 them a visit at Pisa. 
 
 ALBERT TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 'Pisa: October 29th, 1834. 
 * I am enchanted at your plan of spending two months with us 
 here. This will make up a little for our long separation. We 
 shall have plenty of time for castle-building, an amusement which 
 does not cause any heavy disappointments. Alexandrine and I 
 often build one of hving in France with all we love best. I am 
 tired of Italy, and, shocked as you will be at the confession, I 
 assure you, that if you had spent four years, as I have done, with 
 Italians, you would begin to feel a little home-sick. It would be 
 a perfect enjoyment to me to be in France among my friends, and 
 in the midst of the interests which must one day or other be 
 everything to me. I hope my health will allow of it. I think it 
 improves, thanks to the tender care my darling takes of me. I 
 know that you will not tire of the sight of my happiness. I had 
 never imagined it could be so complete.' 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 ' Dear friend, before you leave Florence make a pilgrimage for 
 me to Santa Maria Novella, and say a little prayer to the Blessed 
 Virgin in the first or second chapel, near a black marble tomb, 
 with a statue of Our Lady, surrounded with Angels, which 
 stands behind the altar. Three years ago I used to pray there 
 veiy often, and I have always thought I owed my happiness to 
 those prayers, for it was immediately afterwards that I met Alex- 
 andrine at Rome. I am superstitiously inclined, perhaps, because 
 I am so happy. Pray there yourself, and ask for happiness. Who 
 knows ? Everything is possible with God, and so much is pro- 
 mised to faith. Ask also health for me. Is it wrong to wish for 
 it ? With so much happiness, should I not be satisfied to suffer 
 a little ? Well, God's will be done ! I hope my petition will not 
 displease Him. So, then, pray earnestly for me. Then ialso be- 
 fore you come away, go and see Mademoiselle de Fauveau. She 
 is a sculptor, and does beautiful things, I hear, in the Florentine 
 style. I was looking in the dictionary to see if there was a femi- 
 nine to the word sculptor, and I happened to read this sentence : 
 "It is the worshipper, not the sculptor, that makes the gods." 
 Well, this applies to her. For I am told her works breathe the 
 devout spirit of a Perugino, and moreover she is a Yendean, and 
 when at her ease with those about her, talks of La Vendee in a 
 most interesting manner. I tell you all this from hearsay, for I 
 am not myself acquainted with her. 
 
f Of THE \ 
 
 I UNIVERSITY j 
 
 A SISTER'S STORY. 123 
 
 ' Dear friend, try not to leave Lucca till twelve, for I should 
 like so much to drive and meet you, and I am not allowed to go 
 out till two o'clock. If, however, you could start early in the 
 morning and arrive here before that time, then, of course, it would 
 be all the better. I am dying to see you. 
 
 FEOM ALEXANDEINE's STOET. 
 
 * November 10th, Monday. — Montal arrived at seven o'clock in 
 the evening. Albert was so happy ! We met him on the stairs. 
 He has told me several times that the warmth of my welcome 
 made him feel quite at his ease ; he had been a little alarmed at 
 the idea of finding himself en tiers between Albert and me. I 
 could not have been otherwise than dehghted to see him, for 
 there never was a m.ore devoted friendship than Albert's for him. 
 
 ' Tuesday, November 18th. — I went with Montalembert to see 
 the Campo Santo by moonlight, and thought it so beautiful, so 
 solemn! Albert, who would be so keenly alive to these sort of 
 enjoyments, was obliged to give it up on account of his health. 
 We take long walks on foot, and Albert follows us in the carriage. 
 Montalembert was speaking one day of Albert's extraordinary 
 tenderness of heart, and he said he did not tliinh lie could survice 
 the loss of any one he very much loved. How often I have recalled 
 those words to mind ! Albert never knew that anguish. Alas ! 
 it was himself — himself who taught us what it is ! 
 
 ' Wednesday, December 26th. — This morning my beloved 
 Albert went to Communion in. the Church of St. Francis, at the 
 altar of St. Philomena, where a Novena had been made for him. 
 Yesterday he confessed, with touching humility, to a Franciscan. 
 All this has been good for his soul, but a little fatiguing for him. 
 Dr. Betti, however, saw him yesterday, and finds him better. The 
 day before yesterday I went to midnight Mass at the Cathedral 
 with Montal. I shall never forget that sight. I do not know 
 any Church I admire so much. All those fine columns, with in- 
 numerable lights, but not a great many people, had a magnificent 
 effect. I was very sorry to go there without Albert, who would 
 have enjoyed it so much. He was unwell that day, and had been 
 obliged to lie down, but when we came home we found him sitting 
 up, and tea ready for us. He is so admirably patient, so cheer- 
 ful, so charming! 
 
 ' I had told Eugenie of Albert's going to Communion, but I did 
 not tell her, and perhaps I liked better not to tell her, that it made 
 me burst into tears when I saw him kneeling at the altar. Partly, 
 I think, from sorrow that I was separated from him at such a 
 
124 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 moment, and partly because I was beginning to feel convinced of 
 the truth which I was still struggling to resist.* 
 
 ' On the evening of the 28th of December, Montal began to 
 read aloud to us the manuscript of his life of St. Elizabeth of 
 Hungary, with which we were both delighted. Albert took a 
 fancy to the names of " brother" and " sister " which St. Eliza- 
 beth and her husband gave each other, and since that time, when 
 we were alone, he used often to call me " sister ;" and I remember 
 the beautiful angelic expression of his countenance at those 
 times. I told Montal that in the Campagna at Rome, in 1831, I 
 had once called Albert " brother." We read and converse alter- 
 nately in this way.f 
 
 ' Tuesday, January 13th, 1835. — ^We went to the Cascine, and 
 then, which amused us all very much, to order a new bonnet for 
 me. At dinner Albert suddenly announced that he intended to 
 go to a ball that evening where we had all been invited, but had 
 sent an excuse. I objected, for I was so afraid it would hurt him, 
 but he persisted, and ended by saying, " I will go" He sent for 
 my maid, and desired her to get everything ready. At last I 
 submitted to the not very disagreeable command of making my- 
 self as smart as possible. I was certainly two hours about it. To 
 make the thing perfect, we forced Montal to come with us. He 
 required a great deal of pressing, and declared he had nothing 
 
 * In 1841, five years after Albert's death, Alexandrine was again at Pisa 
 with my parents, and she then wrote these words in her journal, at the edge of 
 the preceding passage : — ' A few days ago I had also in the same chapel the 
 same happiness as Albert, and was more closely united to him then than when 
 he was alive. I did not this time shed any tears. My whole heart was filled 
 with gratitude to Grod, who permitted me to receive Communion in that very 
 same spot.' 
 
 t Alexandrine, in a letter to Eugenie, speaks thus of the books they read : — 
 * I read Dante, and Montalembert reads to us legends. Some charming ones 
 just now about St, Francis of Assisi, a very good saint, who called all God's 
 creatures his brothers and sisters. He says " Brother wolf," and talks to him a 
 long time, and calls the doves his sisters, &c., &c. Montal is writing the life 
 of St. Elizabeth, a queen and a German. He has travelled in Germany a great 
 deal about this book. He will read it to us when it is finished. I am sure it 
 will be delightful, but pray do not mention it to anybody but Pauline. I am 
 sure he would dislike v^ery much that it should be talked of beforehand. So 
 please let i-t go no further. He is so fond of that St. Elizabeth, and has col- 
 lected every sort of detail about her. He told us the story of a knight who wore 
 the colours of a Saint who had appeared to him in a vision. The history does 
 not end here, but it is too long for a letter. What do you think of the life we 
 lead ? I like it. Our tables are covered with newspapers and reviews (those 
 are for Montal), Sir Walter Scott's novels for Albert, and all sorts of books for 
 him and me, from the circulating library at Leghorn. Albert is learning Ger- 
 man, but he does not work at it with your laudable zeal. I am sure you will 
 know it very soon.' 
 
A SISTEB'S STORY. 126 
 
 to wear. Albert lent him almost everything, but we had to send 
 for a shoemaker, and for a hairdresser to cut his hair. All this 
 amused us immensely, and as we had at that time no man-servant, 
 we got the shoemaker's boy to escort us to the ball, which made 
 us all die of laughing.' 
 
 Albert wrote the next day in a letter to Eugenie : — 
 
 ' My health improves daily. Yesterday I compelled my wife to 
 go to a ball, and we dragged Montalembert ditto. After an hour 
 of moderate pleasure we came home to tea. My Httle Alex looked 
 lovely in her blue gown and her diamonds.' 
 
 And then he adds ; — 
 
 ' I am learning German, but like a sulky individual who will 
 never let you know him, it repels all my attempts at better ac- 
 quaintance. It would seem as if the world in general was not 
 worthy of that honour, and that it is only vouchsafed to the 
 chosen few. Montal has made a charming collection of German 
 airs during his stay in that country. He has been hunting up 
 legends and every sort of popular tradition about the saints. It 
 has been a very pleasant occupation to him, and softened the 
 sorrows of the last years. You may well imagine that he adds 
 not a little to the enjoyment of our life. It is so pleasant, so 
 strange, so much what we all like, to spend our days without any 
 of the obligations of society, in perfect intimacy, and without any 
 other ties than those of affection. Were it never to occur again 
 I should still be thankful to have known so satisfactory and so 
 agreeable an existence for a while.' 
 
 alexandrine's story. 
 
 ' On the evening of the 15th of January I went up with Albert 
 to Montal' s room. He was packing up his things, having to start 
 the next day. It was the first time I had been there. Albert 
 used to sit with him every morning. During that time I dressed 
 or read, or wrote, all the while thinking with delight of the plea- 
 sant moments to come. I remember one afternoon that I was sit- 
 ing by the fire-place reading a review, whilst Albert was upstairs. 
 When he came back with Montal I hastened to tell them that there 
 was an abominable infidel article in that review (by Heine, I 
 think), ending with infamous jokes about the bell which gives 
 notice of the approach of the Blessed Sacrament. I told Albert 
 that when I read that passage I was so horrified that I had fallen 
 on my knees. When I said this I saw in his face joy, emotion, 
 and a Httle surprise. Oh, I shall never forget his look, nor the 
 
126 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 feeling with, whicli he uttered some words of tenderness. I can, 
 indeed, say that we never loved each other so much as when we 
 saw how we both loved God. 
 
 ' But to return to that last evening in Mental's room. He was 
 bewildered in the midst of his parcels, books, and papers. I 
 looked at his books a little. They were all more or less religious. 
 There were amongst them legends and stories. I helped him to 
 pack up, and we talked meanwhile a little about religion. He 
 read to me in a triumphant manner a fine passage of Alphonsus 
 Liguori on the devotion to the Blessed Virgin, which I had still 
 some difficulty in admitting, and he recommended me to bum 
 " Father 0/emen^," a book lent to me by my Protestant friends as 
 an antidote against Catholicism, but had rather had the contrary 
 effect. Then we went down again to our sitting-room, and spent 
 a merry evening. Mental made me sing a namber of ballads and 
 national airs which he had collected during his travels. There 
 was among them a beautiful German hymn. The words were 
 translated from St. Bernard (" Jesa, ivie silss, iver Dein gedenkV^^, 
 saying that there is nothing so sweet as to think of Jesus, nothing 
 so sweet as to feel His Presence. Mental was always getting me 
 to sing it, though at first he thought it almost a scandal to let me 
 do so. He was surprised afterwards to find that I sang it with 
 almost as much expression as the pious young girls at Ratisbon, 
 who used to sing it at their work.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUGENIE. 
 
 ' Dear Love, — Our dear Mentalembert is gene. We could not 
 get him to stay longer. We sat up with him last night till half- 
 past two, and then he started with tears in his eyes. He regrets 
 so much this comfortable family life, as he calls it, which we 
 lead, and which he had become quite accustomed to. There is 
 one comfort, and that is, that we are friends with him for life. 
 Tell Pauline that I have received her letter, and am going to 
 write to her, but we have not got a man-servant yet, and we are 
 quite at a loss, now Mentalembert is gene, who used, in a fHendly 
 and good-humoured way, to do all sorts of little things for us, 
 such as carrying all our letters to the pest, buying us chestnuts, 
 &c. Our little maid servant will not go to the post after dark, 
 and at any time I am afraid of her making mistakes about pre- 
 paying or not prepaying letters, so that this want of a servant 
 prevents my writing.' 
 
 ALBERT TO THE COMTE DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 ^^^ Derision and contempt!'^ Dear Friend, — What horrible 
 weather yea must have had ! It has not left off raining since 
 
A SISTEE'S STORY. 127 
 
 yon went. " It is disgusting to think of^* We are longing to 
 hear from you, and to know whether the journey did not increase 
 the pain in your face. We are feeling quite unsettled since your 
 departure. Our life was so comfortable. When shall we enjoy 
 the like again ? Even in France will the evenings of Pisa be 
 ever renewed ? Alexandrine has been ailing these two days. It 
 is nothing to signify. The greatest inconvenience this indisposi-. 
 tion entailed was three visits in two days from Punta (the 
 doctor). We have heard nothing, as yet, of the conjectures 
 which our mysterious mode of life during your stay must have 
 excited. Our plan of a journey to Odessa seems likely to be 
 carried out. I have received a letter from Naples, and I see my 
 parents are beginning to look upon it as a simple and even 
 natural idea. Your suggestion of taking Fernand with us meets 
 with great success. Dear good friend, would you, could you, 
 come too ? How pleasant it would be ! But if, after all, this 
 journey does not take place, I shall try to go to the Pyrenees. 
 There you would be obliged to come, for you must really do 
 something for your health. 
 
 ' You can hardly imagine how much we miss you in our little 
 house. We want you every moment of the day. My morning 
 visits to you, our walks, your errands to the post-office, and, 
 above all, our treasured evenings ! Every instant of the day was 
 sweetened by the pleasure of the most thorough friendship. 
 Alexandrine's indisposition, which prevents her from singing, 
 makes the contrast still more striking. She insists, however, on 
 finishing this letter, and has already bespoken the last page. So 
 I leave you together, and shall fancy I am following you in 
 one of your walks to the Argini. Good-bye, my best friend. 
 Write to me often, though your letters are but a poor compensar- 
 tion for the loss of your society.' 
 
 Alexandrine wrote in the same letter : — 
 
 * Dear good friend, — Albert has written to you a great deal 
 about our regret, but I must also tell you how very much we miss 
 you. We shall scarcely be able to be so merry again as before 
 your visit, for both at dinner and tea there is that melancholy 
 empty place which puts us so sadly in mind of the dear friend 
 who filled it so pleasantly. Punta has been drinking tea with us 
 these two days instead of you — an agreeable exchange ! Only 
 thiak, I have been stupid enough to fall ill, which made matters 
 worse, for two poor invalids want a third person sadly. It was 
 nothing of consequence, and I am quite well again. How I long 
 
 * Two expressions Albert had heard at some play, and afterwards continually 
 quoted. 
 
128 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 to hear about your journey and your face-ache, and whether you 
 have met with any of those misadventures Avhich you say always 
 fall to your lot. Do not be angry with me ; I want you so much 
 to believe that you are one day to be very prosperous. When 
 life begins without happiness it comes later. Did you ever know 
 of a whole life spent in sorrow ? Think that you have two 
 devoted friends who pray for you every day, and that the prayers 
 we offer up for others are the most sure to be heard. Let us 
 hear constantly how our dear St. Elizabeth is going on — you 
 know how very much it interests us — and give us every kind of 
 detail about yourself. You may write as fast and as illegibly as 
 you please, we shall manage to make it out. I have only sung 
 your favourite airs once, for since that day I have been too unwell. 
 By the way, do not be uneasy about a little manuscript-book you 
 left on Albert's writing-table — the one which contains the pretty 
 passage out of " Corinne," and another by the Comte de Maistre. 
 It is in safe hands — in ours, I mean — and we will take some 
 opportunity of sending it back to you, unless you will let us keep 
 it. I wish you had left the little black book behind. 
 
 ' Madame de C called the day after you left, and was most 
 
 gracious. Modesty will not allow me to repeat all she said about 
 my apparition at the ball. Our servant has not yet arrived. I care 
 less about it now, for what I had looked forward to was the fun 
 of laughing at his installation with you. Maria carries the letters 
 to the post now. The day after you left we took the same drive 
 as we all did the last day you were here ; that is, by the Florence 
 road and the Capuchins ; and on our way back we left one of 
 your cards, with "P. P.O." on it, at the Countess Mastiani's. We 
 met Therese* as we came home, who made a mournful gestuTO 
 in speaking of you. She raised her arm and struck her forehead 
 in quite a despairing manner. These are all the little souvenirs 
 of Pisa, dear Montal, which you wished us to write. They are 
 still present to your mind, but you will not be long in Paris 
 before your great interests throw them into the shade. You 
 know the state of our writing-table, so I will not make any 
 apologies for this scrawl. How I do hope we shall meet again 
 this year. I shall never forget the kindness of your last words. 
 May God bless you ! Pray for us, and remember me to the 
 Rios.' 
 
 The 21st of January had been Albert's twenty-third birthday. 
 My mother had written a letter to him that day, in which I find 
 these words : — 
 
 ' It is twenty-three years ago that I gave you my first kiss. 
 
 * A servant who had waited on M, de Montalembert whUe he was at Pisa. 
 
A SISTEE'8 STORY. 129 
 
 It seems to me as if it was only yesterday ; and since that day 
 there has not been a single one in which my heart has not been 
 full of you. You have always been so good that not the shadow 
 of a cloud has saddened that tenderness, or the least irritation 
 existed between us. I cannot, therefore, express, my beloved 
 child, how dear you are to me, and how intensely anxious I am 
 to know yon well and happy.' 
 
 Albert wrote in answer : — 
 
 * January 30th. 
 
 * I begin on this large sheet of paper without knowing whether 
 I shall fill it. At this moment it seems to me too small to hold 
 all the love and tenderness my heart pours out to you, my dearest 
 mother. You did not forget the 21st of January, and I never 
 felt on my part such deep affection for you, and the happiness of 
 being so loved by you and my dear father. Is- it because I so 
 wish to have a child myself that I feel deeply touched by what 
 you say about the twenty-three years which have elapsed since I 
 received your first kiss, or is it only the remembrance of your 
 uninterrupted tenderness which so moves me ? This last reason 
 would be enough to account for it, and that other feeling would 
 only be its natural consequence. I must long to bestow on a 
 child of my own all that tender affection which you have lavished 
 on me. Yoa say that never has the least irritation existed be- 
 tween us. Oh, I thank God for it ! Nothing, my beloved mother, 
 could have made me happier than to hear this. I have often 
 been afraid that I had, on the contrary, been guilty of ingratitude 
 by my want of gentleness and docility to your and my dear 
 father's advice.' 
 
 It was in the month of February of that year that Albert began 
 to keep a regular journal, in the form of letters addressed to (I 
 think) the Abbe Martin de Noirlieu, but without any intention 
 of sending them. 
 
 albeet's journal. 
 
 * Pisa : February, 1835. 
 * YoTi know, my dear friend, that you have often accused me 
 of trying to appear worse than I am. If you knew the whole of 
 my life you would, I am sure, view the matter differently, and 
 come to the contrary conclusion that my good reputation is sadly 
 undeserved. So much so that I am sometimes tormented by 
 the fear that there must be something false in my character. It 
 is no doubt true that I have never been really wicked, or alto- 
 gether stifled the bright but transient lights which have flashed 
 through my soul. But perhaps this only increases my blame. 
 
130 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 Dante describes tbese hesitating souls as slmt out from botli 
 Heaven and hell. I take up everything at first with ardour, and 
 almost immediately afterwards I feel indifferent and disgusted 
 with the very thing I had been most keenly anxious for. Often 
 before my marriage, even when at the height of my passionate 
 love, I felt a sort of despondency come over me, I could almost 
 have wished to put off the moment which I yet felt was the only 
 one which could secure my happiness. I did not know what I 
 wished except to get away. The only tbing that seemed to do 
 me good, was to ride very fast on the sea- shore. It gave me a 
 sense of relief and freedom. Once I went alone to Amalfi for 
 some days, and felt almost unwilling to return to Naples. 
 
 * I ascribe this waywardness in a great measure to the weak- 
 ness of my health and the irritability which it produces, and also 
 partly to a desultory kind of education. My father made every 
 possible sacrifice for my advantage in that respect, but the people 
 with whom he placed me did not fulfil their trust. I was na- 
 turally gentle and diligent, and if I had been treated differently I 
 might perhaps have committed more faults, but I should have 
 grown up with greater energy of character. AVhen I left their 
 care, 1 had lost that youthfulness of soul which some happy 
 natures retain long after their entrance into the world, and yet 
 I was as shy as a child. Then I came to Italy, which on the 
 whole has done me more harm than good, for its climate increased 
 the irritability of my constitution, and over-excited my imagina- 
 tion. Ever since I have been a prey to the inward strife of the 
 two natures we carry within us ; sometimes feeling good and 
 aiming at the highest degree of virtue I could hope to reach, and 
 at others letting myself go wherever the inferior part of my nature 
 chooses to lead me. I cannot master these conflicting influences 
 so as to make them minister to my physical and moral improve- 
 ment. This prolonged struggle brought on the inflammatory 
 illness which carried me to the brink of the grave. Ought I to 
 regret that it did not do so ? 
 
 ' I need not dwell on the three past years of that love which 
 has secured my happiness, for you know God has blessed it. 
 Henceforward I have only to speak of the present and the future, 
 and day by day I intend to do so, not so much for the sake of con- 
 versing with you as to see whether by analysing them I can 
 succeed in mastering mj contradictoiy impulses.' 
 
 ' Monday, February 9th. 
 ' Though I had resolved to wiite in this book how every day 
 had been spent, the thoughts which occurred to me, and the 
 resolutions made, I have not done so for three days. I do not 
 
A SISTEB'S STORY. 131 
 
 know if it is the fault of the weather or of my weakness, but I 
 have been in a state of nervous irritation which precluded all 
 regular thinking. To-day I am better, and I have scarcely 
 coughed at all. My poor Alexandrine has been ill also for two 
 days. She is very delicate, and I get frightened when the least 
 thing is the matter with her. She so easily looks ill. I have 
 sent for the doctor, and I hope it will be nothing. I have little 
 to record. Nearly the whole day has been spent in struggling 
 against that unaccountable, indescribable nervous suffering. It 
 is twelve o'clock. God be with us ! ' 
 
 'Thursday, February 12th. 
 
 * I make fresh strides every day towards health and strength, 
 and trust by God's mercy to be soon delivered from the need of 
 taking these tiresome precautions. I think it is the coming of 
 spring, which gives me such a desire for fresh air, movement and 
 life. You know, I am sure, the feeling which causes both body 
 and soul to long for activity, the heart to spring up, as it were, 
 with faith and hope, which makes us hunger and thirst after 
 God, and cry out — prostrate in adoration — for the Bread of life. 
 
 ' Our plans for a sea- voyage are being matured, but we shall 
 meet with some difficulties in bringing them to bear. This even- 
 ing I finished ' Les Souvenirs,'' by ISTodier. They have interested 
 m.e very much. I admire the youthful enthusiasm and boldness 
 of this writer. His earnestness reconciles us with mankind, and 
 we feel the need of it after wading through all the miseries de- 
 scribed in his journal. It has renewed my regret that during his 
 best years my father should be obliged to give up public service 
 in France ; for Nodier truly says in his epilogue, " It is indispen- 
 sable to society that honest men should coalesce, whatever be 
 the political creed which chance or circumstances have assigned 
 them." But the oath of allegiance is an insuperable barrier for 
 sensitive consciences. If once that mockery of an oath were 
 abolished, my father could resume his place in the Chambers.' 
 
 ' Friday, February 1 3th. 
 
 * I am quite proud of being able to read and understand 
 Shakespeare. I am reading Hamlet, and thrill with delight as I 
 read. I had no idea of this sort of writing, and I look forward 
 to much enjoyment from it. My quiet life alone with my 
 angelic wife is indeed enviable. Last night the thought of 
 Sorrento brought tears into my eyes. Wliat a charm clings to 
 all the reminiscences of the last three years ! I am not llase. 
 My heart is still alive to all the beauty and value of life and 
 poetry. Yes, you may envy me, for I fully feel the value of all 
 
 K 2 
 
132 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 that God has given me. I am reading ^^ Ajjesha,'^ which interests 
 me ; and then it is the East again, and I do love the East.' 
 
 'Saturday, February 14th. 
 
 * My passion for traveUing increases daily. There are moments 
 when the soul seems to pant after unknown lands, where it 
 appears as if everything must be more beautiful than what we 
 see about us. Is not this desire of change, of progress, the wish 
 — so to speak — of getting rid of one's self, this yearning after 
 boundless space and freedom, a sort of indication of our eternal 
 destiny ? Byron says : — * 
 
 * " Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase, 
 And marvel men should quit their easy chair, 
 
 The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace ; 
 Oh ! there is sweetness in the mountain air, 
 
 And life that bloated ease can never hope to share ! * 
 
 * You blame, I know, these sort of fits of enthusiasm, my dear 
 friend, and you have told me more than once that the soul is 
 indeed called to aoi immortal destiny and the knowledge of the 
 infinite, but only when stripped of its earthly shroud. But can 
 we hinder the soul, unable to cast off at will this miserable body, 
 from sometimes striving to drag it upwards towards its Heavenly 
 home ? 
 
 'It is very long since I have been in so steady a state of 
 activity and fervour, as at present. My weak and slothful 
 nature has been more thoroughly mastered than usual, and I 
 suppose this comes from my improved health. My friends used 
 to find fault with my taste for solitude. But how will it now be 
 increased ? How shall I ever endure the noise of crowded draw- 
 ing-rooms, after learning by experience the unspeakable sweetness 
 and fulness of life's best joys ? Is there anything in the world 
 to be compared to Alexandrine's beloved face, seen by the dim 
 light of our dear old lamp ? ' 
 
 ' Monday, February 1 7th. 
 
 * A melancholy sight met my eyes this morning. Eight galley 
 slaves were sweeping the street before our door. They were 
 fastened to each other by a heavy chain, and dressed in red, a 
 sign that they are condemned for a limited number of years. 
 Two only were in yellow, which means that they were sentenced 
 to the galleys for life. These wore a badge on the breast, on 
 which was written : " Bohhery with violence.^' Judging from the 
 newness of their clothes, they must have been recently con- 
 demned, and are probably the same men who were publicly 
 exposed and sentenced the other day for that crime. It is a 
 
 * Childe Harold, Canto I. 
 
A SISTEE'S STORY. 133 
 
 dreadful thing to look at these men, banished from society, and 
 never more to meet with anything at its hands, but contempt 
 and dread, or, at the best, pity. What bitter feelings must fill 
 their souls. ! most just and merciful God, grant them sub- 
 mission and the hope of another life ! May the example of our 
 Lord Jesus Christ, and the thought of His Passion, His patience, 
 His strength, and His love, make them accept their bitter 
 chalice. O ! my Lord Jesus, when Thou wert forsaken by men, 
 Angels came to strengthen Thee, their Divine Master, and to 
 shed tears over Thy sufferings. Unworthy as these poor creatures 
 are, let them also be comforted by Angels now they are scorned by 
 men. They have none to help them but Thyself. Have mercy on 
 them. Blessed Lord. Soften their hearts before they die ! It is not 
 the severity of the sentence, awarded either justly or unjustly by 
 society, which I most apprehend, in their cases, but the misery 
 entailed by the ill-usage of the gaolers, who are too often them- 
 selves the refuse of society. In such an office the most sublime 
 charity ought to be exercised, and hope, patience, and love in- 
 fused into hearts which have nothing to look to on earth, but the 
 hatred and execration of their fellow-men. ! Grod, increase 
 the number of Thy sacred ministers, the true shepherds of Thy 
 poor sheep ! ' 
 
 •Tuesday, 17th. 
 
 * I found an article yesterday in a number of the Presse Britan- 
 nique on railways. How remarkable it is, that just at the time- 
 when vague but new and important ideas of fusion are occupying 
 the minds of men, industry and fresh discoveries second them so 
 admirably. It would be presuitiptuous, I think, not to recognise a 
 Divine agency in this coincidence. Experience has already 
 shown how much prejudice and national animosity disappears, in 
 consequence of the increased modern facilities for travelling, and 
 how many bonds of union have thus been formed between nations 
 once bitterly antagonistic. The spirit of nationality, and even 
 patriotism, in itself a noble feeling, but still too narrow and 
 selfish if considered from the highest point of view, will by 
 degrees give way, I am convinced, to a spirit of union which will 
 embrace all Christian nations. But this immense change will be 
 more certain and immediate, if the material interests of men find 
 in it such advantages as are undoubtedly obtained by that incon- 
 ceivable rapidity of communication which has not by any means 
 reached the perfection to which steam will bring it. But can 
 many nations be formed into one ? No, I do not look forward to 
 the existence of a single nation, or a single kingdom. The 
 unity I contemplate would consist of such an intimate association 
 between different nations, as should satisfy their moral and 
 
134 A SISTEB'S 8T0BY. 
 
 material wants. Men's interests will soon make them understand 
 this truth. Yet I look back, I own, with a sort of regret to 
 those distinct nationalities, which are gradually about to dis- 
 appear ; and the total change I have spoken of can of course only 
 succeed some period of confusion, through which we dimly 
 discern its probable results. We live in an age of transition. 
 We seem to belong neither to the past, nor the future. We 
 stand, as it were, at a point, whence on the one hand we look 
 wistfully at the bright hues of the setting sun, and on the other 
 at the dawning beauty of a new day. I sometimes feel quite 
 lost in thought, absorbed in the contemplation of this strange 
 vision, and a melancholy feeling comes over me as I meditate on 
 our inevitable farewell to that poetic past, whose monuments bear 
 such glorious witness of generosity, enthusiasm, and faith ; — that 
 past whose treasures are about to vanish, and give place to a new 
 society, over which union, simplicity, and equality, will reign.' 
 
 * Wednesday, February ISth; 
 ' Do you happen to remember that poor child whom I once 
 mentioned to you ? Alexandrine and I went this morning to buy 
 some string of his mother, and found the boy dying. He was 
 almost speechless. I sent our physician to see him. The poor 
 parents are miserable ; their little home is in confusion, their 
 work is interrupted, and all their happiness at an end.' 
 
 ' Friday, February 20th. 
 
 * The poor child was still alive this morning ; he was even a 
 shade better. I am afraid he is not well cared for, and his poor 
 parents keep talking incessantly before him of their fears. They 
 were to have fetched Maria (Alexandrine's maid) this morning, 
 but nobody came. I shall send the first thing in the morning to 
 inquire. May God spare him to his parents. 
 
 ' My Alexandrine was looking too beautiful this evening. She 
 little knew it, or what I feel when I look at her. She is always 
 lovely, but there are moments when the expression of her face 
 and countenance quite astonishes me. Dear angel ! how gentle 
 and patient she is ! And yet you would not believe it, but even 
 from her I cannot bear the least opposition, the least contradic- 
 tion. If this irritability does not altogether proceed from ill- 
 health, and does not disappear when I get well, I shall be a perfect 
 brute. 
 
 'The chapter we read to-night, in the ^^ Imitation of Christ,^* 
 was on the test of real love. It is admirable, but describes too 
 exactly our misery and weakness. " ! my Lord, without Thee, 
 without the Holy Spirit, we can do nothing. Strong as we may 
 be when Thy grace sustains us, we are utterly undone and help- 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 135 
 
 less wlien Thou dost witlidraw it. Strengthen our poor weak 
 nature, my Lord and my God, and let me hope to receive Thee 
 into my soul. For without Thee, what am I ? And with Thee I 
 can do all things." ' 
 
 * Sunday, February 22nd. 
 
 ' That poor child died last night. At ten o'clock they came to 
 tell us he was still alive. About midnight his soul went to God. 
 The father left the house with a little girl they have, to get away 
 from the sight of the corpse. The mother remained with it. We 
 went there after Mass. The funeral will take place this evening. 
 Poor little angel, his face was looking quite calm again. He 
 was dressed in white, covered with pink ribbons, and surrounded 
 by a garland of flowers.' 
 
 * Monday, February 23rd. 
 
 ' We have been to the cemetery to see the poor child's grave. 
 Part of the burial-place is set apart for children. The custode 
 said to us : " Here, they are all Angels." How many little 
 Angels have thus flown away, leaving their mortal remains behind 
 them. There seemed to me something especially holy in that 
 spot. In another part of the enclosure, separated by a low wall 
 from the children's burial-place, is the portion set apart for per- 
 sons who have died without the Sacraments. I can scarcely say 
 why this touched me. Perhaps it was the thought that all those 
 innocent souls might possibly be pleading for the guilty or wretched 
 ones, whose remains lie so near their own.' 
 
 Albert received, about this time, a letter from my father, which 
 must have expressed some uneasiness on a subject which often 
 made him anxious. Albert answered it in these words : — 
 
 * My beloved Father, — I am quite grieved at your uneasiness 
 about the smallness of our fortune. I know we are not immensely 
 rich — neither Alex nor I thought of marrying for the sake of 
 wealth ; but I must say I have not found out that we are so very 
 badly off*. There are not many young people, I fancy, who manage 
 to put by a little as we have done, during the first year of our 
 marriage. Whatever be the amount of fortune they start with, 
 is it not generally the case that the income of the second year 
 goes to make up the deficiencies of the first ? You, my dearest 
 father, who know how simple our tastes and habits are, should 
 not be so anxious on this subject. Even here we lead a kind of 
 life which does not at all look like poor. There are very few 
 people, for nsta nee, who have a carriage every day, and we have 
 no difficulty in meeting the expense of two doctors, one of them a 
 first-rate physician. . . . Good-bye, my dear father. Love always 
 
136 A SISTEIi'S STORY. 
 
 
 your Albert, and rely upon it tliat nothing can exceed our happi- 
 ness.' 
 
 On the same day, Alexandrine wrote to Eugenie : — 
 ' Fancy your dear father writing to Albert, that he really sheds 
 tears when he thinks how badly off we are / . . . . And that when 
 we shall actually have saved 4,000 or 5,000 francs at the end of 
 this first year.* And yet we have had a great deal of outlay, — phy- 
 sicians, travelling expenses for ourselves and the servants we have 
 sent for. Indeed, I am very glad that I have seen your father get 
 into these fidgets about others, without reason, for I should other- 
 wise be so vexed that he should torment himself about us. Mon- 
 talembert positively thought us rich, and, indeed, we have every- 
 thing we can possibly want, especially for two people on a journey.' 
 
 It is touching to see how perfectly satisfied they were with an 
 income which would have been considered very insufficient by 
 most persons in their condition of life. This shows with what 
 method and economy they regulated their little household afiairs, 
 and proves that matter-of-fact people, who have no imagination 
 and are incapable of enthusiasm, do not possess that monopoly of 
 good sense which they are so ready to claim, as a set-ofi", probably, 
 against all their other deficiencies ! 
 
 Albert's journal (continued). 
 
 * Wednesday, February 25th. 
 * We have quite a spring morning to-day. What a climate it is ! 
 We went out in the open carriage, and drove through the woods 
 and fields. There is nothing to be compared to one of these first 
 days of spring. We could hardly bring ourselves to come in. 
 We pine more than ever to travel, and soon, I hope, shall leave 
 Pisa. I shall, however, always preserve a grateful recollection of 
 this place, where I have spent so many pleasant hours and enjoyed 
 such unmixed happiness. But I carry away with me the source 
 of all this enjoyment, and you know what a perfect delight it is 
 when two people who sympathise in the most complete manner 
 travel together. You will not, therefore, look upon my passion 
 for travelling as a proof of inconstancy. How often, in former 
 days, I used to envy a young couple travelling in a comfortable 
 caleche, and lost in a paradise of youth, hope, and love ! Well, I 
 now possess that happiness, and I find I was not mistaken, and 
 that the joy I used to see in the countenances of those I so 
 much envied, was but a feeble expression of the ecstacy which 
 filled their hearts ! 
 
 * £160 or £200. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 187 
 
 ' The father and mother of the poor child came to see us this 
 evening ; but just imagine how superficial and transient are the 
 feelings of these Italians. When they left us, they were actually 
 going to the play ! ' 
 
 Alexandrine relates that Albert had reproached his servant 
 Julieu, because he seemed to doubt the extent of these poor pa- 
 rents' grief. She also mentions their having had a visit from 
 Father Luigi Galligani, Albert's Confessor, who, in the course of 
 conversation, spoke of a young Englishwoman who had become a 
 Catholic, and who said she felt in Paradise. Alexandrine re- 
 marks : — ' I was very much surprised at this, for I was so earthly 
 that it seemed to me a great stretch of imagination to find one's 
 happiness in invisible things. I could not at all understand it, 
 and it used to astonish me also when Albert said, " Oh, if you 
 only knew what happiness it is to receive absolution ! " But the 
 expression of his countenance when he said it, is still imprinted 
 on my mind ! ' 
 
 A few days afterwards they went to the Franciscan Convent at 
 Santa Croce, Albert wanting to speak to Father Luigi. Whilst 
 he was inside the house, a good lay brother, Fra Clementino, 
 brought Alexandrine some cofi'ee, who swallowed it with mingled 
 feelings of gratitude and disgust. The good brother was advising 
 her all the time to become a Catholic, and promised to give her 
 his Jerusalem beads, if ever he saw her one.* 
 
 Albert's journal (continued). 
 
 * We may, perhaps, go to Russia by Vienna, and in that case 
 
 we shall possibly see , whom Alexandrine has never met 
 
 since she gave me her love, the joy of my life. This evening we 
 talked of him, and these reminiscences seemed to interest her. 
 Dear angel ! she did not know how eagerly I listened. It is not, 
 however, the first time she has thus revealed her inmost soul to 
 me. It is so with her father's death. The least word which 
 
 * ' Five years afterwards,' Alexandrine says, ' alone, and in a widow's 
 weeds, I went to the same convent. Meeting a brother carrying his bag, I 
 asked him if Father Luigi Galligani was at home. He told me he was absent. 
 I then inquired after Fra Clementino. I was speaking to himself! He recog- 
 nised me, and his joy at seeing me again was as great, he said, "«s if his 
 mother had risen from the dead." He hastened to fetch his Jerusalem beads, 
 and gave them to me as he had promised. He too had grieved for Albert, and 
 tears of compassion and tenderness fell from his eyes as we spoke of him. Joy 
 was, however, the prevailing feeling in our hearts during this interview, for our 
 beloved faith makes up for every sorrow, and only destroys sin." And yet five 
 years before, Alexandrine could not even understand that it was possible to 
 find happiness in invisible things. 
 
138 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 reminds her of that great trial leads her to describe the various 
 emotions which she went through at that time. Oh, how I feel 
 with and for her ! She need not be afraid of tiring me. The 
 tears which rush to her eyes will always be sure to call forth 
 mine. ISior need she fear to dwell on that other period of her life 
 which she remembers so well, for in it I tind that same heart 
 which has so entirely given and opened itself to me for time and 
 for eternity. God bless her for never thinking I could be troubled 
 at her saying that she once thought she had loved that man. Oh, 
 no ! I feel at those moments a sort of fatherly protecting tender- 
 ness which makes me only love her the more, and I also have a 
 few httle cherished tears lying at the bottom of my heart. And 
 she, too, listens when I tell her all that has occupied my thoughts 
 before I knew her. She knows there are recollections which one 
 would not for the world discard, by rubbing out, as she says her- 
 self, the landmarks of the past, and thus forestalling the work of 
 death. Oh, she is right ! As long as the heart is full of love, let 
 us believe and hope in Grod.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 ' Dear Mental, — It is several days since Albert received your 
 dear letter from Alessandria and Geneva, and we wanted to answer 
 it much sooner. We are impatient to hear of your having arrived 
 in Paris. (Oh, what dreadful paper, pen, and ink !) I write to 
 you to-night instead of to-morrow, because to-morrow I must 
 work. You cannot imagine what a passion I have taken for 
 needlework. I am very sorry it did not begin when you were 
 here ; first, because there is nothing so pleasant as to work while 
 somebody reads to you ; and then because you would have admired 
 the really enchanting things I make ; and finally, because you 
 would have conceived a more favourable opinion of me had you 
 seen me so femininely employed, and it would have convinced 
 you that it was not out of pedantry that I used to read instead 
 of sewing. You think of me, however, only too favourably. I 
 suppose you did not expect I should read your letters to' Albert. 
 I did read every word of the last, and felt pleasantly ashamed of 
 the praise you give me. Still, whether out of vanity or only from 
 a real knowledge of my own character, I do maintain that though 
 T am not nearly so good as you think, I reflect a great deal more 
 than you suppose. Then, I must add, that I was a little shocked 
 at the words dissipated and dangerous which you use in reference 
 to the life I led before my marriage. I feel it on account of my 
 parents. My dear friend, I always think you too severe on the 
 poor world. It has many dangers, I grant, but also more virtues 
 than you seem inclined to think ; and when this is the case, is not 
 
A SISTEB'S STORY. 139 
 
 the merit greater than when they are practised in a quiet life ? 
 Mine has been the usual existence of all the young girls of our 
 time. You will, perhaps, reply that this is no excuse, but, after 
 all, many a one far better than I am has led it. And to return 
 to my parents. They are not responsible for the three hundred 
 and seventy-nine admirers, or any other name you may choose to 
 give them, which you suppose me to have had. If it were any- 
 body's fault it was my own ; but that simjylicity of affection which 
 you say belongs to my character, that I inherit from my parents. 
 It has often and often touched and delighted me in my father, 
 who up to the very end of his life liked what children like, and 
 enjoyed all that children enjoy. And my mother ! what tender- 
 ness of heart she possesses, what a sweet, open, unaffected cha- 
 racter ! Oh ! I assure you that if there is any tenderness, any 
 gentleness, any simplicity of heart in my disposition, it is to them 
 I owe it. 
 
 ' Dear friend, I like to think you pray for me. I have great 
 need of it ; but do at the same time pray for my father's departed 
 soul, and for those I love on earth. Those are the prayers I like 
 the best, and as I have a great reliance on yours, I earnestly beg 
 for them, and I am sure you will grant my request. You are too 
 true a friend not to do so. 
 
 ' Albert has given me the beautiful Spina, in alabaster. I should 
 like to leave it with you whilst I travel. I must work something 
 for you whilst I am in the humour, but you are so hard to please 
 that I am sure you will think it ugly. Write to us as often and 
 as much at length as possible.   By-the-way, our Jocrisse has ar- 
 rived. His name is Julien. He is tolerably civiHsed. He cer- 
 tainly says, "M'sieu," as you predicted; but then he says, "Ma- 
 dame's dinner is served," which is rather elegant, and "Madame" 
 is still an amusing novelty to my ears. He cannot read or write, 
 but he gets on pretty well without it. He is very ugly. Albert 
 says he is humpbacked. It is your own fault that I send you all 
 these particulars. You would have them. Adieu. I have no 
 more room. May God give you all the happiness I wish you.' 
 
 The journey to Odessa, which had been for some time contem- 
 plated, was at last resolved upon. Alexandrine was by this 
 means to visit her mother, and spend a part of the summer with 
 her at Prince Lapoukhyn's magnificent estate, between Odessa 
 and Kiev. The doctors approved of this plan for Albert, because 
 of the long sea voyage, and after some discussion it was settled 
 that they should come to us at I^aples, and embark thence for 
 Malta, then go on to Constantinople, and so on to Odessa. It was 
 
140 A SISTEB'S STORY. 
 
 a great undertaking, and involved a long separation from us, but 
 hopes were entertained that it would greatly benefit Albert's health, 
 and Alexandrine was of course delighted to pay a visit to her 
 mother. They neither of them the least dreaded the length of 
 the journey. Count Putbus, with that devoted friendship which 
 he on every occasion evinced, as soon as he heard of their plan, 
 offered himself as their companion and protector for the journey. 
 He was to meet them at Naples, where we were all looking 
 forward with joy to their arrival, and with sadness to the parting 
 which was so soon to follow it. 
 
 A day or two before leaving Pisa, Albert wrote a long letter in 
 Italian to Father Luigi Galligani, who kept it, and five years 
 afterwards gave it back into Alexandrine's hands. The first part 
 of it was lost, but here is what remains : — 
 
 ' I feel it impossible to doubt that God looks on my beloved 
 wife with those eyes of mercy and love which He fixes on all up- 
 right and sincere souls really seeking the truth. You have seen 
 enough of Alexandrine, my dear Father, to be convinced that such 
 is the case with her, and you notice how full she is of tenderness 
 and charity. It is God's infinite goodness which has made her 
 what she is, and granted me the blessing of meeting with her 
 and making her my wife, the treasure and joy of my existence. 
 I shall never cease to thank Our Blessed Lord, and to hope 
 everything from His mercy. I shall carry away from Pisa very 
 precious recollections, and can never forget your affectionate and 
 fatherly kindness to us. I beg your blessing, my dear Father ; I 
 assure you that we are both your grateful children, and that as 
 long as we live we shall preserve that respectful attachment 
 which on so many accounts we owe to you. 
 
 'Albert de la Ferronnats.' 
 
 Alexandrine, on reading this letter five years afterwards, ex- 
 claimed : ' Oh, my Albert, with what partial eyes you looked 
 upon me ! but your faith and that certainty you felt that God 
 would have mei-cy upon me have met with their reward. ; ! my 
 God, my God ! Finish the work Thou hast begun. I am not yet 
 safe. My angel, plead for me ! ' 
 
 No, she was not yet safe, for she was still on earth. But now 
 that I am copying her words, I feel a joyful confidence that she 
 has attained the final, unalterable blessedness of endless peace 
 and light. 
 
 On the 23rd of March they embarked on board the Sully for 
 Leghorn ; and on the 26th Eugenie wrote in large letters in the 
 ^Journal of Family Events,^ which she began to keep on the day 
 of Alexandrine's marriage : — ' Arrival of the Alberts ! At eight 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 141 
 
 o'clock my father gave us notice that the ship was in sight, and 
 that they were coming. Emma, Mamma, my father, and I rushed 
 to the port. Great joy at meeting, and bringing them home with 
 us. Albert is much better ! ' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 ' Naples : March 28th. 
 
 * My dear Mental, — Here we are happily arrived at Naples. 
 The Sully brought us from Leghorn, and Albert is well, thank 
 God ! We are neither of us sick, and it evidently agrees with 
 him. We shall probably make our great start from Malta, but 
 we wait for Putbus, who has given up his Paris journey. You 
 may imagine how delighted I am at seeing my sisters again. I 
 have just time enough to think of you, but not enough to write. 
 I am very elegante ; it is a pity you cannot see me. I have not 
 made any blunders yet. Good bye, my dear good friend. I have, 
 and always shall have, a great affection for you. Your friend, 
 Alex.' 
 
 Albert wrote in the same letter : — 
 
 ' My dear Friend, — We have been so unsettled lately that I 
 could not answer your last letter, and indeed I cannot do so now, 
 so near the time when the boat leaves. I am afraid that I shall 
 be ordered to spend next winter also in Italy. My father is, 
 however, going to France at the end of this month, to see about 
 a place in the country, which will, I hope, hold us all. I long to 
 get there, for my home-sickness increases every day. Remember 
 me to the Abbe Lacordaire. What would I not give to hear his 
 conferences, and to find myself in the midst of those wholesome 
 excitements of the heart and mind which are so little known in 
 Italy ! Dear, good friend, we are going to be again a long time 
 parted, but you must always look on Alex and me as your most 
 devoted friends. Write to us often. In my next letter I will 
 tell you where to direct to us. Shake hands with Rio for me, 
 and remember me to his wife. If you see the Abbe Martin, speak 
 to him of my unalterable attachment.' 
 
 Albert's journal (continued). 
 
 •Naples: March 29th, 1835. 
 
 * The last days of our stay at Pisa were so full of bustle and 
 business, that it is only now I have resumed my journal. We 
 had a most excellent passage, and very few passengers on board. 
 My wife was alone in the ladies' cabin. Neither of us were ill. 
 It was the first time we had travelled quite alone together. We 
 stopped at Civita Vecchia. How full of recollections are all 
 
142 A SISTER'S STOJRY. 
 
 these places ! When we reached N'aples I could scarcely believe 
 my eyes. The sight of that coast, where every spot is associated 
 with the most vivid remembrances, that perfume which is like 
 the soul of Naples, and exists nowhere else, all those charming 
 outward impressions tallied with those equally charming remi- 
 niscences which seemed to meet and welcome me, as if seeking to 
 efface the recent emotions awakened amidst other scenes. You 
 know my weakness ; I gave myself up at once to those dear de- 
 lights. Oh, Naples ! Naples ! no place on earth has ever made 
 my heart beat with such joy as thou ! 
 
 ' How many different shades there are in enjoyment. I en- 
 joyed Pisa, and that sort of pleasure must have been more grateful 
 to God than what I feel here. The thought of God was mingled 
 there with all I saw, and I was not so feverishly excited. Why 
 did everything at Pisa make me think of God ? I enjoyed no- 
 thing without Him. At Naples the natural beauties which 
 surround me, bewitch the senses, and my soul seems lost in the 
 loveliness of creation. Still, I do not think that God condemns 
 this sort of enjoyment. It is more earthly, no doubt, but after 
 many a struggle, after wading through many obstacles, the cry 
 of the soul is still directed to Him ; and may He not make it 
 pure, in spite of all it has passed through ? This too fair, too 
 bewitching scenery, is a stumbling block here. The poor weak 
 heart loses itself amidst all this ecstatic beauty. It ceases to 
 seek God, for it seems already to have found Him.* 
 
 alexandrine's story (continued). 
 
 * Friday, April 3rd. 
 
 ' I went out with Albert. We found that good, excellent 
 Monsignor Porta in bed, and ill. He thanked me so much for 
 my visit, and repeated very often his favourite saying about 
 Albert's family : " Son tutti Santi " (they are all Saints), and he 
 told me that I too am to be a Saint. Then we went to M. 
 Valetti, the Protestant clergyman. He received us very ^civilly, 
 and talked of some poor Trappists whom he assists. 
 
 ' Sunday, April 5th. — Albert and I went to see a doctor who is 
 staying at the Comtesse de Maistre's ; then I breakfasted with 
 Pauline, and the conversation turned on the difference between 
 various kinds of affection. It soon became an argument. Albert 
 called for me just when the dispute was at its height, and carried 
 me off to the Villa Reale, where we took a little walk. He scolded 
 me, said that he hated disputes, and in everything loved peace. 
 
 ' In the evening we had music and company. I liked then to 
 be well-dressed, and to move about from one corner to another 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 148 
 
 of that great drawing-room of the Palazzo Gallo. Albert, on the 
 contrary, used to go to his room when people came, and often re- 
 gretted Pisa. 
 
 ' Monday, April 6th. — I was with Pauline at a party at the 
 Duchess of San Teodoro's, and that was the last time we went 
 out together. This made Pauline always remember the dress I 
 wore that night ; she has often reminded me of it. I had on a 
 black .velvet gown, and in my hair, round my neck, and on the 
 front of my dress, pink rubies set in black enamel. 
 
 ' I am not sure which day it was, but about that time Albert 
 complained once quite seriously, that I had left him for five hours. 
 I had been out on some necessary business, and I exclaimed, 
 " How could I help it ? Was it to amuse myself? " And pro- 
 voked at Albert's injustice, I scratched his finger, as a little cat 
 might have done. He laughed, and looked at his finger in such 
 a funny manner, that I saw the quarrel was made up. But I was 
 very much ashamed of my bad temper, and I went and accused 
 myself of it to Pauline, who burst out laughing. 
 
 ' Saturday, April 11th. — I was very sad on account of a letter 
 Albert wrote to Mental. This is it : — 
 
 ALBERT TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 * " Dear good Friend, — You say in your last letter that you 
 are ashamed not to have answered ours of the 8th of February. 
 How much more ought I to reproach myself for my unpardon- 
 able silence. How is your brother ? What is he going to do ? 
 And you ? Are you still so out of spirits ? Wlien shall we lead 
 again our dear Pisa life ? I am threatened with the necessity of 
 spending another winter in Italy, but I do not allow myself to 
 think of it, for I have an intense desire to go back to France. 
 The longer this sort of exile lasts, the more I fear it will prove 
 fatal to me. There is at this moment a spirit stirring among the 
 young men in France, which I am always regretting does not 
 influence me. This new life ; this craving for faith ; this bright 
 dawn of awakening religion, which infidelity had for a while ob- 
 scured. Nothing can equal the beauty of all this, and in contrast 
 with it, Italy resembles some fair corpse ! 
 
 ' " In the meantime, we sail for Constantinople the end of the 
 month. It is a beautiful journey, and I shall long for you at 
 every step. We shall put in at Palermo, Girgente, Malta, Smyrna, 
 &c., and towards the end of August we shall return the same way, 
 and then God knows where we shall spend the winter ! Do pray 
 that this journey may prevent the necessity of my being longer 
 away from France. Dear friend, you can understand better than 
 any one how intensely I desire to return, for it can only be at the 
 
144 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 m 
 
 close of our interminable wanderings that I can hope to see that 
 act accomplished without which my happiness can never be com- 
 plete. At this Easter time I suffer in a way which you, to whom 
 alone I say it, will well understand, in seeing my Alex unite her- 
 self in spirit only with the feelings which fill every heart in these 
 blessed days. That state of mind which is neither one thing nor 
 the other, that feeling of uncertainty, doubt, and transition, is 
 dreadful. She ought to see one of such priests as are to be found 
 in France, but are not to be met with here. What I suffer from 
 the thought of spending another year in this state, you can easily 
 fancy ; and again I say it, I look to France alone for the person 
 who will make her feel the necessity of a fixed belief, the absence 
 of which, if prolonged, must exercise a disastrous effect in the 
 long run upon her religious feelings. 
 
 ' " Remember me to the Abbe Lacordaire. Tell him how I 
 envy all who are present at his conferences. There is no place 
 like Paris for satisfying those inner wants of the soul, without 
 which it vegetates, but cannot be said to live. The strong emo- 
 tion which Hfts it up to God can only be felt, ordinarily speaking, 
 where love is an active piinciple. Here indolence and dream- 
 iness prevail on every side. Ii;aly certainly suggests loving 
 thoughts, but it is love of an enervating kind. Even in the 
 intercourse of the soul with God, there is something weak, cow- 
 ardly, and vague. Nothing is clear or positive. How is it pos- 
 sible that this general tendency should not affect the very ground- 
 work of all ideas ? The whole country exhales a perfume which 
 none but vigorous souls can resist, and even these must be soon 
 overcome by it, if they breathed it too long, and did not at times 
 re-nerve their energy amidst the labours of more active charity^ 
 and in the atmosphere of a sterner love. 
 
 ' " What you tell me of the Abbe de Lamennais must break the 
 hearts of his friends. But what really are his ideas at this mo- 
 ment ? Every one construes the state of his mind according 
 to his own fancy, and his enemies, avaihng themselves of the 
 uncertainty in which he leaves us as to the exact form he would 
 give his Utopia, ascribe to liim the most disastrous views. Tell 
 me also what is the work Rio is engaged in. You can easily sup- 
 pose that I take the greatest interest in it. I must bid you 
 good-bye, my very dear friend. Pray for my Alex — pray for us ! 
 Albert." 
 
 ' This letter made me very sorrowful. I could not think of it 
 without tears. As I had never even thought of going to a Pro- 
 testant Church at Pisa, Albert naturally enough could not under- 
 stand why I acted differently at Naples. I knew very well that 
 I went because I was afraid my mother might hear I had not 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 145 
 
 done so, and out of human respect on account of M. Yaletti and 
 the Protestants at Naples. I felt restless and miserable, and sat 
 up till three o'clock with Eugenie, who kept comforting me to 
 the best of her power, and assuring me, in spite of my tears, that 
 it would all end well. We opened together a httle volume of 
 texts, which my mother had given me when I married, and I was 
 glad when my eyes fell upon this passage : " Surely Ephraim is 
 an honourable son to me ; surely he is a tender child ; for since I 
 spoke of him, I will still remember him. Therefore are my bones 
 troubled for him; pitying, I will pity him, saith the Lord. ^^ 
 
 ' Monday, April 13th. — I went to the Protestant Chapel ; 
 Albert walked there with me, and left me at the door. It pained 
 me very much to part, as it were, with my husband, in order to 
 draw near to God, and it seemed quite a relief when I found my- 
 self with him again. That was the last time of miy life, thank 
 God, that I attended any Protestant service. 
 
 'Thursday, 16th. — Albert went to Communion with all his 
 family. I was not well, and the pain which our religious separa- 
 tion gave me increased my discomfort.' 
 
 ALBERT TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 'April 17th. 
 * Dear Friend, — We start on Monday, and to-day is Friday. 
 My father, who is going to Paris, will take you this letter. We 
 shall return from Odessa in August, and settle again for the 
 winter in poor old Pisa. I pine for France, and am in despair at 
 being obliged to spend another year away from home. The re- 
 action which is now going on is so important and interesting. 
 I only hope that enthusiasm will not carry anybody too far, and 
 also that those to whom it belongs to keep us in check, will un- 
 derstand the greatness of the move we are making, and that 
 instead of arresting it, they will become our leaders in the paths 
 of faith, hope, and charity. I am reading at this moment the 
 Abbe Beautain's work. The Philosophy of Christianity. It interests 
 me very much. I think he exhibits admirably the history of true 
 religion ; the plain series of promises and their accomplishment. 
 What is the fault found with him ? All I have read of his writ- 
 ings seemed to me strictly orthodox ; yet my brother Fernand, 
 who is a great admirer of his, writes to us that the Bishop of 
 Strasburg has forbidden him to preach. The most painful thing 
 now-a-days is the opposition of the heads of the Church. Well ! 
 Providence never permits anything to happen but for some wise 
 end, and it may be that these checks from the rulers of the Church 
 are ordained by a still higher power, in order to moderate the im- 
 petuosity of so many young and fervent souls, who, with their 
 
 L 
 
146 A SrSTEE'S 8T0BY. 
 
 thirst for changes, and passionate desire for improvement, might 
 easily press forward beyond the proper limits. Be this as it may, 
 I am thankful to have been bom at this time, for we shall witness 
 many wonderful changes.' 
 
 On the 30th of April, 1835, at about three o'clock in the after- 
 noon, Albert and Alexandrine went on board the English vessel 
 which was to take them to Malta. At the same moment my 
 father and Albertine, who were going to France, embarked in the 
 Sully for Marseilles, and we who remained behind were going in 
 a little boat from one vessel to another, taking a sorrowful leave 
 of the travellers, and particularly of those who were to go 
 furthest, and to stay away the longest. 
 
 It was that day, and on board the English ship from which he 
 spoke to us for awhile, that I saw Albert for the last time up and 
 in health. I seem to see him still, looking at us with his ani- 
 mated countenance, and the tender, sad expression of his beauti- 
 ful eyes. The next time we met was when I went to bid him 
 another and final farewell. But no such fear crossed my mind 
 at the period I am speaking of. This may appear strange, and 
 the state of blindness in which we lived on this point, will per- 
 haps surprise those who are happy or callous enough never to 
 have known what it is to fear for a dear and precious life. Those 
 who have experienced this anguish can tell how both hopes and 
 fears conspire to deceive us ; and I believe that God often allows 
 this illusion, that our peace may be prolonged up to the day when 
 we find ourselves face to face with the trial, which His powerful 
 gi'ace enables us then to meet with a courage hitherto unknown. 
 The doctors, besides, had considered that this voyage would prove 
 an efficacious remedy for Albert. Their opinion justified our hopes, 
 and, indeed, as will be seen, they seemed at first Kkely to be rea- 
 lised. Therefore, our chief sorrow in parting with them, was the 
 great distance about to separate us, and the difficulty and uncer- 
 tainty as to tidings during their long absence. But now, thanks 
 to their letters and the journals they both kept during the long 
 voyage, we can easily follow them sailing to the East, and relat- 
 ing as they go, the incidents and impressions of each successive 
 day. This kind of narrative is necessarily brief and incomplete, 
 but it would be a pity to substitute any other account. 
 
 alexandrine's journal. 
 ' At three o'clock we all went on board the Sully to take leave 
 of my father-in-law and Albertine. The rest of the family then 
 accompanied us to our vessel. Hector de Beam came to wish us 
 
A SISTEB'S 8T0BY. 147 
 
 good-bye. They all stayed a few minutes, and then left us. Oh, 
 my God, protect and bless every one of us, and all those we both 
 love ! My mother-in-law, Pauline, Eugenie, and Olga stayed for a 
 long while in their little boat between the two vessels, one of which 
 was carrying away M. de la Ferronnays and Albertine, and the 
 other Albert and me. There was a band on board our ship, and 
 the sea was calm.' 
 
 Albert's journal. 
 
 ' Here I am writing in the cabin of the ship which is taking us 
 to the East. All things considered, this is rather an absurd ex- 
 pedition, and to make it at all reasonable, I ought to be as strong 
 as a Turk when I come back. 
 
 ' We sailed from Naples three hours ago. There is nothing so 
 sad as leave-takings. It would be better to have the courage to do 
 without them. The beginning of our voyage has been very pro- 
 mising. Nothing can exceed the good-nature of the officers. 
 The captain does not speak French. I speak to him in English, 
 so I leave you to imagine how fluently we get on. . . . We 
 coasted the much-loved shores of Sorrento, discerned Amalfi, 
 doubled Capri, and have since seen nothing at all.' 
 
 'Malta, May 2, 1835. — The day after the last noted, we passed 
 Stromboli at daybreak. It was smoking as usual, but as it was 
 broad daylight we did not see any fire. The weather was very 
 cloudy when we went through the Straits of Messina. The coast 
 of Calabria must be beautiful, as well as Sicily, but to travel 
 by land must be exceedingly difficult, on account of the ravines 
 which intersect the shore, and along which the mountain torrents 
 come rushing down. When we came in sight of Etna, the clouds 
 which veiled its summit disappeared, and we saw it quite plainly. 
 The following morning we neared Malta, and landed there at about 
 twelve o'clock. We had some trouble to find apartments; at last, 
 late in the afternoon, we took possession of a very nice set of 
 rooms. Yesterday, Sunday, we went to high Mass at the Cathe- 
 dral, which is a very fine and interesting Church. The pavement 
 is covered with the tombs of the knights, incrusted with their 
 shields. I shall have to leave this place, I expect, without seeing 
 much of it, for the heat is intense, and my cough very trouble- 
 some, which does not serve to raise my spirits. Nobody enjoys 
 travelling more than I do, but to leave one hotel for another, and 
 have no pleasure but that of saying to myself, " I am at Malta, 
 Smyrna, or Constantinople," and know them all only by hearsay, 
 is, you will admit, a way of travelling, hardly preferable to a quiet 
 and monotonous, but comfortable home life. 
 
 ' We are making our preparations for the voyage to Smyrna ; 
 
 jl2 
 
148 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 that is to say, dear Count Putbus bustles about for us, for I do 
 not leave the house. He has engaged a vessel for ourselves alone. 
 It takes us to Smyrna for one hundred piastres. We have to buy 
 beds, linen, plates, candlesticks, blankets, glasses, &c., and then 
 also to lay in provisions. There is a shop here well provided 
 with every kind of portable food, and we take with us besides a 
 good number of Hve chickens and plenty of macaroni, &c. 
 
 ' This town seems to me charming, but if I cannot walk about 
 more than I have hitherto done, I shall carry away a very vague 
 idea of it. The houses are handsome — the streets clean — every- 
 body speaks English. As to the native dialect, it is a mixture of 
 Arabic and incomprehensible Italian.' 
 
 ALBERT TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 'Malta, May llth. 
 
 * My Beloved Mother, — I will not leave Malta without once 
 more begging for your dear blessing. Write to us often, I beseech 
 you, and send us every Httle detail. Remember how we pine for 
 the sight of your handwriting. We are well, and leave Malta to- 
 morrow. May God watch over us ! The most interesting part 
 of our journey is to come, and I look forward to the great enjoy- 
 ment of coasting the islands of Greece, and of seeing Smyrna, 
 Gallipoli, the Dardanelles, and Constantinople. But I have so 
 great a yearning for France and for all of you, that my eyes are 
 too often turned homeward, and what lies before them loses a part 
 of its charm. Malta has interested me very much. We have 
 been twice to the beautiful Cathedral and the tombs of the old 
 kuights. The women here are lovely. Good-bye, my dearest 
 mother. With God's blessing we shall spend in a year's time 
 happy days together in France. Kiss for me our Jane, Paule, 
 Olgette, and Augustus. It is twelve o'clock. We sail to-morrow 
 at eleven. ' Your affectionate Albert.' 
 
 Alexandrine adds : 
 
 ' My Dear Mother, — Your Alexandrine kisses you most fondly. 
 Do all be happy, as happy as we ask God every day to make you ; 
 and let us hope to be one day together again, and that soon.' 
 
 ALBERT TO HIS FATHER. 
 
 'Malta, May llth. 
 
 * We are still very near Naples, and we hear nothing of those 
 we left there, whereas you who are so much further off have 
 already had tidings of them. May we all soon meet again. What 
 is dear Fernand about ? What a pleasant travelling companion 
 he would have made ! On the other hand, how I envy him and 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 149 
 
 you also being in France ! If yon see our dear Montal, tell tim 
 about us, and how many affectionate remembrances we send him. 
 I regret so much that he is not travelling with us. 
 
 ' It is an Austrian steamboat — the Mary Dorothea — which will 
 take us from Smyrna to Constantinople. So far from you ! I do 
 declare my home sickness grows worse than ever. Well, God 
 bless us all. At the end of August we shall steer towards you. 
 My Alex is quite well, and I love her if it is possible a thousand 
 times more than at home. Putbus begs to be remembered to you. 
 He is kindness itself, and arranges everything for us in the most 
 perfect manner. Like an idiot, I managed to let myself be robbed 
 of a purse containing fifteen of the louis you gave me. You know 
 I did not wish you to be so generous, my dearest father. May 
 God bless you a thousand times for this and all your other kind- 
 nesses. The further I go, the more I think of the beauty and charm 
 of France. Bless us also from the far end of our own dear country.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE AND EUGENIE. 
 
 ' Malta, May 10th, 
 
 * Dear Sisters, — One little hurried line for you both. Do not 
 be vexed with me if I do not write all the little details of our 
 voyage. It bewilders me too much. We are charmingly lodged 
 here. Large, lofly, pretty, cheerful rooms, with every kind of 
 comfort in them. 
 
 ' I hope you like your new home. You are not many there just 
 now, but it is the best of a large family that there are always 
 some of them together. Fernand is the only one alone at this 
 moment. Your father is going to be with Charles and Emma, I 
 suppose ? What is my little Eugenie doing ? Oh ! pray very 
 much for us. I wonder where we shall be when you receive this 
 letter. Oh ! that Albert may be the better for this long voyage ! 
 
 ' My dearest sisters — my little Eugenie, my little Paule, I kiss 
 you most affectionately.' 
 
 Albert's journal. 
 
 • Monday, May 8th, 1 o'clock. 
 
 ' I write from the port of Malta. We are on board the English 
 ship which takes us to Smyrna, and are waiting for the papers 
 without which we cannot start. 
 
 ' The French party who were to have sailed with us are going 
 in a man-of-war, but we have plenty of fellow passengers — the 
 deck is crowded with extraordinary looking women, Turks, and 
 all sorts of individuals, not of the most cleanly description. For- 
 tunately we are below and alone. Three deaf and two blind men 
 
150 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 are making dreadful music, or rather noise, alongside the ship in 
 honour of our departure. Edwardes * is here. His yacht, which is 
 lying alongside of us, came in eighty hours from Marseilles. The 
 thought that I was only at that distance from France renewed my 
 home sickness, but I shook off the feeling, and here I am making 
 for other shores with all the eagerness and curiosity of an enthu- 
 siastic traveller. 
 
 ' We are out of port, and a fine breeze, which we have been 
 partly wasting by these delays, is filling our sails. An hour after 
 our departure the deck began gradually to clear, and we are now 
 almost alone, making our five knots an hour, and fast losing sight 
 of Malta. 
 
 ' Tuesday, 12th. — ^We are going on slowly this morning, and if 
 the wind does not favour us our voyage may last us twelve days, 
 during which time I shall not write, for there is nothing on earth 
 so monotonous as this ship life, unless we happen to encounter 
 pirates or tempests.' 
 
 alexandrine's journal. 
 
 * Thomas (Count Putbus's servant) brought two rose trees into 
 our cabin. Last night I went on deck with Putbus to look at 
 the moon. It was beautiful seen through the sails, and so was its 
 light reflected in the sea. I enjoyed it immensely, for I have 
 never seen anything like it. My dearest Albert, who would have 
 been so worthy of the sight, could not venture out in the night 
 air. But he is better, thank God ! He coughs much less than 
 at Malta, and his pulse is good. 
 
 'Wednesday, May 13th. — Julian cooks for us, and a goat we 
 have on board helps to feed us, Albert especially. Ah ! I wonder 
 what all those who love us are thinking about now ! 
 
 ' Thursday, May 14th. — To-day the ship rolled very much. 
 Everything was crashing and rolling about. Albert was sea-sick. 
 I was very glad of it, for consumptive people are not considered 
 to be liable to that suffering. They say a dove is following the 
 boat. To-night, whilst I was lying down in my horrid cabin, 
 some of the women near me and one of their husbands said and 
 sang some prayers for a long time. 
 
 'Friday, May 15th. — I felt keenly at the sight of the shores of 
 Greece. I was glad, too, to see land again. I was a little fright- 
 ened last night. A dove, perhaps the same which was following 
 us yesterday, was caught this morning. I have been on deck. 
 There is lightning, and I saw luminous fishes (palamidae) in the 
 sea. It was very pretty.' 
 
 * The Hon. Kichard Edwardes, younger son of Lord Kensington. 
 
A SISTEB'S STOBY. 151 
 
 Albert's journal. 
 
 * Saturday, May IGtli. — Yesterday, for the first time since Tues- 
 day, we saw land. The coasts of Greece have been growing more 
 visible, and towards evening we were opposite the shores of La- 
 conia. Cape Matapan rose in beautiful relief against the sky, 
 gorgeously shining at that moment with the last rays of the set- 
 ting stin. There was a fresh breeze, and the Captain, afraid of 
 nearing the island of Cerigo (Cy thera), hemmed in as it is with low 
 rocks, kept clear of the coast ; bat this morning going on deck, I 
 saw Cerigo behind us. We had just sailed past it. Now the 
 wind has fallen. "We are becalmed. 
 
 ' Sunday, May 17th. — Not much more wind than yesterday. 
 After dinner a little breeze sprang up, and we passed the islands 
 of Falionara and Caravi. The sun sank magnificently behind the 
 mountains of ISTapoli. Its last rays threw over all these coasts a 
 hue of burnished gold, still more beautiful perhaps than the colour 
 of the mountains of Italy in July. The heat has been oppressive 
 to-day, and although I feel infinitely better than at Naples, I 
 cannot overcome a sort of impatience at the precautions which 
 shackle all my actions, and may perhaps continue to do so for 
 years to come. This prospect depresses me. I feel a burthen 
 to myself and to others. If I get accustomed to this mode of 
 life, shall I ever be able to lead another ? My temper is soured 
 by these thoughts, and I get irritable. My poor Alex, whom the 
 least thing makes anxious, takes it into her head that I am worse 
 than I seem. Poor dear love, I. am afraid she will have many a 
 sad day to go through on my account ! 
 
 ' Putbus is an excellent man, and a real friend, whom I sincerely 
 regard ; but the entire want of sympathy in our feelings and 
 hopes will always stand in the way of a close intimacy. Oh, I 
 like to find myself with those who abound in faith and love ! I 
 long then to pour forth all I think and feel. But in presence of 
 anything like scepticism, I shrink into silence and reserve, like a 
 snail who comes forth when the sun shines, and withdraws into 
 its shell when the sky is overcast.' 
 
 alexandrine's journal. 
 
 ' Syra, "Wednesday, May 20th. 
 
 * So dreadfully noisy that I was quite frightened last night. 
 The weather was really stormy, and I have not been able to get 
 up. Albert was sick. But he is really getting quite well now. 
 There is a balmy air blowing from the land which does one good. 
 
 ' Thursday, May •21st. — There was a terrible storm last night, 
 but I did not hear it. Albert and Putbus went on deck. Another 
 
152 A SISTER'S STOBY. 
 
 anchor had to be cast. I slept part of the day. At one o'clock 
 Albert woke me to give me some flowers which had been brought 
 from the town. Ah ! dear Mamma, would not you have been 
 frightened about us last night ! And Alexander and Fedor, and 
 the Naples people too ! What are they all about, I wonder ? 
 
 * Friday, May 22nd. — I have been very cross. It is this violent 
 wind which irritates me ; but I am ashamed to be so ungrateful. 
 What would it be if we had had an accident at sea, or if Albert 
 had been ill ? and I might have been sea- sick, and poor Putbus 
 too. Oh dear ! How ungratefal one is ! ' 
 
 albeet's journal. 
 
 • Friday, May 22nd. Ten o'clock at night. 
 ' The hurricane blowing incessantly since Tuesday has at last 
 subsided. We hoped to sail yesterday, but the wind was still too 
 strong. To-day it has changed, but fallen also, and we are now 
 delayed by a calm. It is very unlucky, for now it would be 
 favourable. What shall I say of Syra ? I only went on shore 
 once in four days, and felt no inclination to repeat the visit. There 
 is but one principal street full of shops — provision dealers, bakers, 
 tailors, linendrapers, and cap-makers. Alexandrine brought me 
 a Greek cap. We looked into a Church, rather a pretty one, but 
 wonderfally fragile ; like a sort of lantern covered with pictures, 
 with benches below for the men, and circular seats upstairs for the 
 women. I did not see the Catholic Church, which is at the entrance 
 of the town. A very well-dressed Greek came up to us, who said he 
 was a prince, and ended by begging. We gave him a five-franc 
 piece and he went away highly deHghted, The scent of land 
 reaches our vessel, and we inhale it with delight. It is reported 
 here that King Otho's coronation is put off till August, I saw a 
 specimen of the new gensd'armes in the streets of Syra, and they 
 look strange figures. I think it is the Bavarian uniform they 
 wear, with the Greek colours, white and blue. They have Httle 
 caps like the German students', blue coats, with white facings, and 
 white metal buttons. The uniform is hideous beside the pictur- 
 esque Greek costume. You see I have nothing to say, and there- 
 fore am dreadfully prosy. The sailors are working on deck. I 
 trust this is a sign that we are going to start ; that to-morrow we 
 shall coast Tino and Myconi, and the day after to-morrow be at 
 Smyrna.' 
 
 alexandrine's journal (same day). 
 
 ' To-day, while reading in St. Augustine's Confessions, how his 
 conversion was brought about by the words : " Take up and 
 read" [Tolle^ lege], which he thought he heard, and which made 
 
A SISTER'S STORY, 163 
 
 him open the Epistles of St. Paul, I resolved to do the same 
 thing, and after a short prayer I opened at this verse : " Do not 
 therefore lose your confidence, which hath a great reward." * 
 This struck me very much, and when I showed it to Albert he 
 was quite pleased.' 
 
 Albert's journal. 
 
 ' Sunday, May 24th, 6 o'clock in the morning. — We left Syra. 
 The wind did not cease to be contraiy. We tacked all day 
 between Delos and Tino, and came near enough to the latter to 
 discern the town, which has a marvellously beautiful appearance 
 from the sea. We could perfectly well distinguish a magnificent 
 Church, built in the Saracenic-Pointed style. I wish we had 
 been there instead of losing our time at that horrible Syra ! 
 After sailing all day backwards and forwards between Tino and 
 Myconi, we passed between the two islands during the night. 
 
 'Wednesday, May 27th. — God be praised! Here we are at 
 last at Smyrna ! We arrived just at half-past four. Sixteen 
 long days and nights at sea ! 
 
 ' Smyrna, May 27th, 1885. — The nearer we drew to the shore 
 this morning the higher our spirits rose. A favourable wind 
 filled the sails, and drove us with rapidity along the coast, so rich 
 in its abundant vegetation. We shot quickly past the fortress 
 with its white walls. A Turk rowed up to our vessel, and in- 
 quired if we were from Alexandria, whence no passengers are 
 allowed to land, owing to the plague raging there. We soon dis- 
 covered Smyrna ; the lofty citadel of Mount Pagus, the minarets, 
 the cypresses of the cemeteries, and the Mahometans' town. There 
 are a great many vessels in the harbour. Two French ships of 
 war, an EngUsh brig, and a little Austrian schooner enlivened the 
 view. The consuls inhabit the lower part of the city, and their 
 different flags, together with the minarets which are everywhere 
 to be seen, break the sameness of aspect which would otherwise 
 belong to the streets of Smyrna. The town is divided into two 
 parts, upper and lower. The former is inhabited by the Turks 
 and Jews ; the latter by Greeks, Armenians, and Franks. Our 
 hotel is on the sea- shore, and our vessel has cast anchor at a 
 short distance from the port. The inns at Smyrna are anything 
 but good, but we were very glad to get in here. Think of our 
 surprise when, as we were looking at the rooms, I saw, in a little 
 
 drawing-room I coveted, M. de M . I did not know him 
 
 again at first, but when he heard my name he introduced himself. 
 He was just come from Aleppo, and was going to Constantinople. 
 He insisted on giving up the drawing-room to me, which he had 
 
 * Hebrews x. 35. 
 
154 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 very naturally taken possession of. I had scruples in depriving 
 him, tired as he was, of the best sitting-room, but at last I agreed 
 to accept the offer, on condition that he shared it with us. 
 
 ' May 28th, Ascension Day. — Alexandrine and I went to the 
 Catholic Church. I had a feeling of being at home when I 
 entered it. In a country where one sees so many divisions on the 
 point which ought of all others to unite men together, it is a real 
 comfort to find one's self amongst brethren in the faith.' 
 
 alexandeine's journal. 
 
 ' May 28th. — ^We have been in the street of roses, and we saw, 
 sitting at their doors or on their balconies, a number of really 
 lovely women. Their faces are uncovered, and they have very deli- 
 cate, regular features, and a sweet expression. They wear the 
 most charming Greek caps (sactikos), surrounded by beautiful 
 plaits of hair, with flowers on one side, and generally on the other 
 a long blue tassel. After dinner we went on the sea, and enjoyed 
 
 the beautiful sunset. M. de M amuses me, for he is very 
 
 droll. He pays me compliments, which is perhaps what amuses 
 me; and Hike to be called ^^ Madame'' and ^'■Madame de la Ferron- 
 nays." I am not quite used to it yet, though I have been married 
 more than a year. 
 
 ' Friday, May 29th. — I read the Confessions of St. Augustine 
 with Albert, and admired it so much. Then we went to see M. 
 
 de V , the Dutch consul, who is our banker, and afterwards 
 
 into a caique toBournabat,the fashionable promenade at Smyrna. 
 The view from it is charming. We also visited M. Tricon's 
 country house. He is the French physician here. We awoke 
 him from his siesta, but he received us nevertheless very politely, 
 oflfered us coffee, and gave me some lovely flowers. 
 
 ' Sunday, May 31st. — Albert and I went to the Austrian 
 Catholic Church. I read there the Epistle of St. John, in which 
 Smyrna is mentioned. We saw afterwards the exterior of the 
 Pacha's seragho and the barracks, and had a glimpse of a Turkish 
 cemetery, and then of the slave market, where some black women 
 were waiting to be sold, dressed in rags, but with such pretty 
 little feet. This painful sight made my heart ache. There was a 
 lovely young Jewess with waving golden hair looking at them. 
 There are immense numbers of pretty women here. Many of 
 them wear enormous gauze turbans, which match strangely with 
 their linen gowns. 
 
 ' Monday, June 1st. — On board the Mary Dorothea. I was de- 
 lighted this morning to think we were going away, particularly 
 
 after M. V , who came to see us, had said that a man had just 
 
 been seized with the plague, as he opened a trunk which hap- 
 
A SISTER'S STOBY. 155 
 
 pened to be overlooked at Sjra, where he had performed quaran- 
 tine on his way from Alexandria. This increased my impatience 
 to leave Smyrna. We started at half-past two. The heat was 
 intense. Our crew of the Neio Fame made ns no end of farewell 
 
 Tuesday, June 2nd. — They awoke me this morning to see the 
 plain of Troy, and the island of Tenedos. I looked with great 
 interest at these places of ancient fame. We sailed all day 
 between Europe and Asia. At half-past eleven we stopped before 
 Gallipoli to take np passengers. We had already done the same 
 at the Dardanelles. Some of them were women. I found it 
 amusing to talk with them through an interpreter. There was a 
 darling little girl, the niece of a slave merchant, who thought me 
 pretty, and said I should fetch a high price ! The merchant was 
 talkative and jocose, which is not at all like the Turks. They 
 were wonderfully quiet and motionless on board. It is said that 
 they are frightened at sea, but they never give any signs of fear. 
 Last night at sunset I saw them spread their carpets on the deck, 
 and take off their sHppers. They prayed a long time and with 
 great earnestness. 
 
 ' We have also a Greek priest in the patriarchal dress. The 
 other passengers are Jews, Armenians, Turks, Negroes, Greeks, 
 Abyssinians, English, French, Russians, and Italians. I was glad 
 to find that I was not so afraid of the plague as I had supposed. 
 I sat with these women, to whom I lent my spy-glass, and stood 
 near the Abyssinian merchant, without a thought on the subject, 
 
 till the Abyssinian who travels with M. de M came to warn 
 
 him not to touch those people, who were just come out of the bath. 
 After that I was more careful. 
 
 ' Most of the Turkish women I have hitherto seen are covered 
 with a veil, much in the same way as nuns ; only their white 
 veils hide their faces more completely, and a kind of black mantle 
 is worn over the veil. Some of those we have on board come 
 from Mecca. Their black mantles are made of silk, and are such 
 as the Italian women wear. Their noses and mouths are con- 
 cealed by a white band. I saw this evening that they were 
 taking off their veils for a short time to breathe a little fresh air. 
 Among the Turks there is the handsomest man I ever saw. 
 Most of the Turks and Greeks are fine looking- men, 
 
 ' Constantinople, June 3rd, 1835. — We are arriving, but the 
 day is only beginning to break, and it is too soon to fojm a 
 definite idea of the city. We can, however, discern the Seven 
 Towers, the suburbs, the peak of the Seraglio at the entrance of 
 the Bosphorus, and the barracks at Scutari just opposite (in 
 Asia). We can well imagine that when the sun shines on this 
 
156 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 "^ 
 
 spectacle it must be most beautiful. We discern St. Sophia and 
 the Mosque of Sultan Achmet. Now we are going into port and 
 are casting anchor at half-past four o'clock.' 
 
 ALBERT TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 * Constantinople, June 3rd. 
 
 'We arrived here this morning in excellent health, and de- 
 lighted with our journey. The best steamer I ever knew brought 
 us from Smyrna. The Dardanelles exceeded all my expectations ; 
 nothing I have seen can be compared to that lovely shore on the 
 left side of us, Europe and Asia on the right. We were sur- 
 rounded by the most picturesque figures ; Greeks, Turks, and 
 Arabs, and at last the Eastern element prevails. Unfortunately 
 we steamed in so swiftly that we did not see Constantinople for the 
 first time by broad daylight. But afterwards the sun illuminated 
 for us the wonders of the Bosphorus. It is beautiful, very 
 beautiful indeed. I cannot compare it with Naples, for the two 
 scenes are totally unlike. Naples is lovely, this is magnificent. 
 
 ' How thankful we ought to be for this prosperous voyage ! 
 We found here a letter from my mother-in-law of the 25th, very 
 anxious about our voyage. As the boat sailed four days ago we 
 cannot write to her, and she will not hear of us till she sees us 
 arrive. Good-bye, my own beloved mother. Your Alexandrine 
 sends you a thousand affectionate kisses. When shall we meet 
 again ?' 
 
 ALBERT TO HIS FATHER. 
 
 ' I was greatly delighted with Smyrna, but since I have seen 
 the Dardanelles and Constantinople, all my admiration for other 
 places has vanished. . . . M. de Boutenieff has been most kind ; 
 although he is at Therapia, he has written to offer us his house 
 at Pera. I have declined with a thousand grateful thanks. I 
 shall call on Admiral E-oussin. I have made his acquaintance 
 since Fernand sailed under his orders. Good-bye, my dear father. 
 Love your children and pray for them. God grant that you may 
 come and join us at Pisa in the autumn ! If you see Montal, tell 
 him I shall very soon write to him, and that we talk of him con- 
 tinually. Putbus begs to be remembered to you. He is so kind, 
 and the pleasantest travelling companion in the world. My 
 Alexandrine is in great beauty, in excellent health, and she loves 
 you with all her heart.' 
 
 alexandrine's JOURNAL. 
 
 ' Thursday, June 4th. — M. de Sabouroff arrived here this morn- 
 ing, looking exactly like a Turk. Soon afterwards the Prussian 
 
A SISTEE'S STORY. 167 
 
 minister, the Comte de Koenigsmark, came to fetch us, and we 
 went out accompanied by his dragoman and ours, by a janissary 
 in a semi-European dress, whose business it was to walk before 
 us, stick in hand, driving away the Greeks, with whom contact 
 might be dangerous, and then by the chasseur of the Comte de 
 Koenigsmark. 
 
 ' We embarked in the smart caique of the Prussian Legation, 
 visited several bazaars, bought perfumes and bargained for shawls, 
 which I handled rather imprudently, according to what M. de 
 Boutenieff told me. There are always cases of plague at Con- 
 stantinople, but fortunately not at Pera. 
 
 ' We saw the Hippodrome, the magnificent Mosque of Sultan 
 Achmet, and had a distant gHmpse of the interior, which looked 
 like the nave of a Christian Church. They showed us afterward 
 the serpent (in olden days the tripod of Delphi), whose three 
 heads have been cut off by the Turks, and then the lovely Court 
 of the Sultan Bajazet, and the tower of Seraskier, to the top of 
 which we ascended. I had implored Albert to remain below, but 
 no sooner had I reached the top than I saw him standing by me. 
 It was so imprudent, the wind was very high up there. I trust 
 it may not have hurt him. The view was perfect from that 
 height, and had it not been for my anxiety I should have enjoyed 
 it very much.' 
 
 ' Friday, June 5th. — To-day being Friday, the Mussulman's 
 Sunday, we started at eleven o'clock to see the Sultan going to a 
 Mosque. We were close to his pretty palace in Asia, whence we 
 saw him sally forth, and we followed him at some distance. 
 He was saluted by the ships, and the cannons along the shore 
 fired. The Bosphorus was looking more beautiful than ever. 
 The palace is large, richly gilt, and well situated. We had 
 glimpses of the most delicious gardens beyond it. As the Sultan 
 was coming out, there were sounds of music, and at his return 
 we were near enough to enjoy the perfume of the pastilles which 
 are burnt before him. Three horses with embroidered saddles, 
 studded with emeralds, rubies, and pearls, were standing in the 
 court. The Sultan rode one of them. He has a handsome face, 
 grave, sad, and striking-looking, in spite of the hideous red fez 
 he wears. We saw him go by, and then went round to the 
 Sweet Waters of Asia, where we found the most magnificent trees, 
 the loveliest verdure, and a variety of people strolling about in 
 every kind of costume, amusing themselves and swallowing all 
 sorts of refreshments, in which we also indulged. I saw at a 
 little distance a young Turkish lady sitting on cushions, with 
 some other women. I went towards her, and with a graceful 
 cordiahty she made me a sign to sit down. Our interpreter 
 
158 A SISTEE'S STOEY. 
 
 helped us a little, and then withdrew with Albert. She lifted up 
 the lower part of her veil, and showed me her whole face ; one of 
 the loveliest I have ever seen. She is eighteen years of age. 
 After she had shown me her dress she examined mine with 
 curiosity. My waist seemed to surprise her. These ladies have 
 no figure at all. A cashmere shawl was wrapt round her form. 
 After a little time she called my dragoman, and with much 
 courtesy and graceful eagerness of manner, told him she invited 
 me to go to her home the next day before twelve o'clock, or if 
 later, to one of her friends at Bujukdere. The way in which the 
 Turks bow is very graceful. They touch the breast, the Hps, and 
 then the forehead.' 
 
 ' Saturday, Jane 6th.—- At half-past eleven we set off with our 
 dragoman in search of my pretty little Turkish lady. We found 
 her already gone to Bujukdere. Then we drove to Therapia, 
 where Albert wanted to call on Admiral Roussin. We paid a 
 visit there to a relative of our dragoman, which interested me 
 very much, and then went on to the Russian embassy, at Bujuk- 
 dere, where they said that nobody was at home until the evening. 
 It was four o'clock, and I determined to make another trial to 
 find my Turkish friend. We were close to the house she had 
 mentioned, when a servant of the Russian Minister came running 
 after us, to say we were expected at dinner. Putbus advised me, 
 nevertheless, to pay a short visit to those women whom I felt 
 very curious to see. I resolved to do so, fancying the house was 
 two steps from where we were, but instead of that, I had to cHmb 
 a steep hill, and arrived at the door breathless and in a flurry, 
 thinking I should be too late for dinner. I saw a most beauti- 
 ful view, but was in too great a hurry to enjoy it. At last I was 
 conducted to a kiosk (summer house), where my Turkish friend 
 was sitting with her friend and some other women, all with their 
 faces uncovered, and roses in their hair. Some European sugar 
 plums were brought in, which I meant to give them in return for 
 the preserves I knew they would offer me. But I did not leave 
 them time to do so. I was so agitated by the hurry I was in, 
 and also by the embarrassment of not being able to speak, that I 
 did not do much more than sit down and rise up again. My 
 little beauty, looking more lovely than ever, rose also, and accom- 
 panied me to the door, where she kept me a little while longer, 
 whilst she was talking to my dragoman (without thinking of 
 drawing down her veil again), and giving him all sorts of civil 
 messages for me. 
 
 ' At last we both arrived at the Boutenieffs', who received us 
 with the greatest kindness. They sent for Putbus, who was 
 hiding, but was found at last, and dined with us. After dinner 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 159 
 
 we had coffee in the garden, and M. de Fahrmann, the Secretary 
 of Legation, showed us a charming kiosk, which belonged to him, 
 and which he had offered us. It gave me pleasure to meet young 
 Grregoire Gagarin again. It was late before we came away. The 
 moon had risen by that time, the weather was beautiful, and that 
 evening ended a very enjoyable day in an agreeable manner.' 
 
 * Sunday, June 7th. — At ten o'clock Albert and I heard Mass 
 at St. Mary's (of the Franks). They took me to a gallery set 
 apart for women. The sound of the organ, the High Mass, and 
 the thought of Christians assembling to pray in the Sultan's 
 dominions, affected me more than I can quite account for.* 
 
 ' At one o'clock we went with the Count de Koenigsmark to 
 the Sweet Waters of Asia, where, thanks to bis diplomatic privi- 
 leges, I saw the Sultan's palace, which is well situated, built of 
 wood like all the houses here, fancifully painted, and not in good 
 taste ; still on the whole picturesque, and out of the innumerable 
 windows there are most lovely views. We saw in the distance a 
 magnificent large green tent, and numbers of people who come 
 there to amuse themselves. We stopped to look at some Greeks, 
 who were performing the most inconceivably ridiculous dance. 
 
 * We also visited Ayoub and the Coronation Mosque, which it 
 is absolutely forbidden to enter. But the court, with its two 
 beautiful plane trees, is charming, and so are the tombs around 
 the mosque. They are surrounded with gilt railings, which en- 
 close magnificent trees, and rose bushes in flower. The mor- 
 tuary chapel of the Sultan is particularly beautiful. The tombs 
 were ornamented with mother-of-pearl, and over some of them 
 were thrown cashmere shawls.' 
 
 * Tuesday, June 9th. — To-day we began our sight-seeing with 
 M. Texier, by visiting the Jenigane Mosque, built by the Sultana 
 Valide. I was charmed with the interior, as well as with the 
 grand and solemn Saracenic architecture of the exterior. The 
 pavement was covered with matting, which serves for carpets in 
 the winter. I had taken off my galoshes, and some of our com- 
 panions took off their shoes. All that the Turks require is, that 
 no one should enter their temples with soiled feet. A number of 
 strange shaped coloured glasses are hung around the mosque. 
 There were Turks there chanting the Koran in a half- speaking, 
 half-singing tone. Between them they have to read the whole of 
 the Koran every day, each, of course, a different part. We went up 
 to a gallery to obtain a general view of the place. The large 
 
 * Alex wrote here on the margin of her manuscript : ' I received on that day 
 one of those invisible impressions of grace which leave behind them a deeper 
 remembrance than any material things. I suppose that Mass at that time 
 had the kind of effect upon me which the sun might produce on blind people.' 
 
160 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 cupolas of the mosques have a wonderful effect. Thence we pro- 
 ceeded to the mosque built by the great Solyman, and began by 
 visiting the mortuary chapel. The coffin which holds his remains 
 is immense, for the size of a tomb indicates the rank of the per- 
 son it contains. Other coffins surround it, and are covered with 
 the usual quantity of mother-of-pearl and shawls. The roof of 
 this chapel is gorgeous, and studded with real diamonds, which 
 gradually disappear as the repairs of this immense building ne- 
 cessitate an increased outlay. We examined the inside of this 
 mosque, which is, if possible, still more beautiful than the other, 
 went to some bazaars, and then came home, tired to death. As 
 I was lying on a sofa, very cross, the third dragoman of the 
 French embassy, M. de Tranequeville, came and begged me to 
 come and look at some shawls. He and the merchant began by 
 conversing together for a quarter of an hour, and then the hand- 
 some, majestic-looking Persian asked me in a solemn manner, if 
 I would accept flowers, fruits, or preserves. It is the custom not 
 to begin to talk of buying at first, but to behave as if it were an 
 ordinary visit. Some delicious cakes and excellent coffee were 
 set before me, and at last M. de Tranequeville began gently to 
 speak about shawls, and the Persian showed us some beautifal 
 ones — ^black, green, and red. 
 
 ' Afterwards we drove round the walls, that is to say, we went 
 as far as the Seven Towers. The walls, which are as old as the 
 time of Constantine, are well preserved, and covered with ivy and 
 creepers. From one of the towers there is a still finer view than 
 the one from Seraskier, which made me at last exclaim that Con- 
 stantinople was really the most beautiful place in the world. I 
 had never said so before, for up to that moment I had given the 
 preference to Naples. 
 
 ' Thursday, June 11th. — ^M. Texier took us to St. Sophia. On 
 the way to it, we admired the fountains, which are very numerous 
 and beautiful at Constantinople ; and we stopped a moment before 
 the "Sublime Porte." When we arrived at St. Sophia, that dear, 
 excellent M. Texier had a long conference with a softa, to try and 
 obtain entrance for us. We were anxiously waiting the result. 
 At last the softa came and said that two persons, Albert and I, 
 could go in. They allowed us, indeed, to enter, but we could only 
 just get a glimpse through one of the three doors which lead to 
 the interior of this celebrated Church and mosque. I could not, 
 therefore, see the famous cupola, but I did obtain a sight of one 
 of the four Angels which are painted in it, and which the Turks 
 have allowed to remain, destroying, however, the faces, in conse- 
 quence of their horror of all likenesses of living things. 
 
 ' At the seraglio, thanks to M. Texier, we were more fortunate, 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 161 
 
 and "we saw the greatest part of those lovely porticoes and gar- 
 dens, the verdure of which is beautiful, though they have no 
 flowers, and thence ascended the long enchanting terrace, which 
 overlooks the sea. We got into a boat, and went to Scutari, in 
 Asia, and rode to the burial-place, which is filled with a multitude 
 of tombs, surrounded by cypresses of the most incomparable 
 beauty. The view all the way was lovely beyond description. 
 
 ' The sea was rough when we returned. In the evening we 
 rested, and several people came to see us, amongst others M. de 
 Tranequeville and Doctor Maroncelli, the brother of Silvio Pellico's 
 famous fellow prisoner. 
 
 'Friday, June 12th. — We left Constantinople this morning. 
 M. de Boutenieff, M. de Fahrmann, and Prince Gagarin, saw us 
 on board the steamer, the Newa, and gave us flowers and fruit. 
 Then, immediately on entering the Black Sea, we began to roll 
 dreadfully, and to be sea-sick. 
 
 ' Saturday, June 13th. — I awoke, crying bitterly. This day 
 four years my father died. All to-day we have seen nothing but 
 sea and sky. 
 
 'Odessa, Sunday, June 14th, — Oh, what a happy moment it 
 was when I saw Odessa, and a letter from Mamma, written 
 on the very same day it was brought me ! Oh ! my God, how 
 good art Thou ! I got into a boat with Albert and M. Sabourofi". 
 We approached the shore, and then they both exclaimed that they 
 could see Mamma. My short sight prevented me from doing so, 
 but soon afterwards I saw her — actually saw her coming towards 
 us. Oh, that blessed moment ! How happy I was ! I did not 
 even care for not being able to kiss her. My heart overflowed 
 with gratitude and joy ! After such a long separation to see her, 
 to hear her, to look at that dear beautiful face looking at me, and 
 speaking to me, was it not immense happiness ? They threw 
 me some flowers and a ring, which Mamma had brought me. We 
 were near enough to look and talk, but an agent of the board 
 of health was watching to prevent our touching one another. At 
 sunset we parted, for we have to sleep on board to-night.' 
 
 ALBEET TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 ' My most Beloved Mother, — Here we are in quarantine, our 
 journey as good as ended, and in perfect health. We arrived at 
 Odessa yesterday morning. My mother-in-law was already there. 
 An hour after our arrival she came to the Lazaretto, with Lapouk- 
 hyn and Catiche. They were only four steps from us : we could 
 talk together, but not approach any nearer. As soon as Alex and 
 her mother caught sight of each other, both of them burst into 
 tears (you know Alex's big beautiful tears), and the daughter 
 
 M 
 
162 A SISTEB'8 STORY. 
 
 cried out, "Liehe^ liehe Mama!'^* and the mother, " Sacha, Sacha!" 
 but at last they became more composed, and for an hour we con- 
 versed quietly together. 
 
 ' This morning we have begun our quarantine, and are estab- 
 lished in the Lazaretto, which is a magnificent building. '' We 
 have a house to ourselves, another for Putbus, and a large space 
 to walk in.' 
 
 (The rest of this letter is illegible, on account of the famiga- 
 tions it went through.) 
 
 alexandrine's journal. 
 
 * Odessa, Monday, June 15th. — ^We are to stay here a fortnight, 
 and during that time we can see my mother for a great part of 
 the day. 
 
 ' Tuesday, 16th. — To-day Count Woronzoff, the governor of 
 Odessa, came to see us. 
 
 * June 20th. — The days are slipping by, and meanwhile we lead 
 a pleasant sort of life. What an agreeable quarantine ! Not only 
 do my mother and Prince Lapoukhyn spend the day with us, but: 
 quantities of friends and acquaintances pay us visits. Count 
 Opraxin and Count Woronzoff to-day ; then Madame Narishkin, 
 Madame de Choiseul, and many others. 
 
 ' Yesterday we kept Mamma waiting whilst we were preparing 
 a funny surprise for her, which Sabouroff had planned. He had 
 dressed himself in a magnificent Turkish dress, and lent Albert 
 an equally splendid one. I arranged my hair as the Smyrna 
 women wear it, and putting on a sort of dressing-gown, I tied a 
 shawl round my waist, and stuck a dagger into it. Thus equipped, 
 I sat down by Sabouroff in a fine tent he has ; the carpet M. de 
 Boutenieff had given me serving as a seat. Albert stood near 
 us, the little negro boyf behind, Mr. Tchefhine as a Circassian, 
 and Putbus as a Bedouin, at the entrance of the tent. We then 
 sent for Mamma and the Prince, who laughed very much, and 
 enjoyed the joke.' 
 
 albert to his father. 
 
 * Odessa, at the Lazaretto : June 22nd, 1835, 
 * You can hardly imagine, my dear Father, how kind everybody 
 has been to us at Constantinople. It is impossible to be more 
 obHging and gracious than all those with whom we have had to 
 do have been. To begin with, M. de Boutenieff, the Russian 
 Minister, showed us every kindness. He had known Alexandrine 
 since her childhood, and the affection he seemed to feel for her 
 touched me very much. Admiral Roussin was also very kind, 
 
 * Dear, dear mamma. f Belonging to M. Sabouroff. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY, 163 
 
 and spoke to me of Fernand with great interest. And the good, 
 excellent M. d'Ejrragues, who is devotedly attached to you and 
 to all our family, was more hospitable and amiable than I can 
 describe. He speaks of you with the deepest gratitude. M. de 
 Tranequeville's interpreter, a particularly pleasing young man, 
 attached to the Legation, did everything in his power to be of use 
 to us. In short, I shall never forget the reception we met with 
 at Constantinople. Perhaps the better to account for this unani- 
 mous goodwill, I may as well mention that my Alex has something 
 about her which wins everybody's heart. I know, by experience, 
 the irresistible power of this attraction. 
 
 ' We are here in the Lazaretto, exactlj?- as in a pretty country 
 house. My mother-in-law comes and spends the morning with 
 us, goes home to dine, and returns in the evening. We spend the 
 time in chatting together, and after a few more days' patience "we 
 shall rush into one anotlier's arms. Lapoukhyn had thought 
 beforehand of engaging foi- us an excellent cook, who is shut up 
 with us. So you see we are by no means to be pitied. We meet 
 with all sorts of attention, and Count WoronzofF provides us with 
 every comfort, even with French newspapers, which he sends us 
 every day. But for the confinement, it is like being at home.' 
 
 ALBEKT TO M. DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 ' The Lazaretto of Odessa : June 25th. 
 
 [This letter describes their journey, their residence at Constan- 
 tinople, and their life in the Lazaretto, and then Albert goes on 
 to say] — 
 
 ' In four days we shall be released, and after spending two days 
 at Odessa, we start for Warsaw. In the early part of September 
 we shall direct our steps towards Italy, and next summer, I trust, 
 join my father in France. My longing for home quite oppresses 
 me. I read in the "Journal of Frankfort," that M. de Lamennais 
 had arrived in Paris to defend the accused in the April business. 
 Good Heavens ! what a strange idea ! how did it ever come into 
 his head ? Thank M. Lacordaire for his kind message. I hope 
 his conferences will be published, for a poor exile like me cannot 
 forego his interest in what so powerfully excites the youth of 
 Paris. Alex is very grateful, dear friend, for your constant friend- 
 ship, and I am sure she will be very angry with me for leaving 
 her so little space in this letter. I must confide to you, as to a 
 friend who takes a lively interest in my fate, that she makes con- 
 quests wherever she goes. At Smyrna one ; at Constantinople 
 three ; one of them reciprocal ! Here in quarantine, declarations 
 come in showers. I am obliged to implore her to encourage only 
 her amusing admirers.' 
 
 m2 
 
164 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 Alexandrine in the same letter : — 
 
 ' He has, indeed, left me very little space. I must add, that 
 the four individuals he alludes to are all French, which supports 
 Pauline's assertion that I have a special power of pleasing them. 
 What will become of poor France when I live there ? I have too 
 many things to tell you, so I will not write at all, and, moreover, 
 there is no room. Do let us hear from you. Dear friend — dear 
 brother — I have always prayed for you, in Asia as well as in 
 Europe, and I hope God will make you happy, and that we shall 
 all meet again. We have got hold here of one of Swedenborg's 
 books, which has puzzled and interested us. What do you think 
 of that man ? What a singular life ! always conversing with 
 spirits, and talking of them as we do of people. And then all he 
 relates about the Angels ! His life seems to have been very vir- 
 tuous and peaceful. But for all that, I have no doubt you anathe- 
 m.atise him in the most unsparing fashion, or perhaps for the sake 
 of contradicting me, and because I had said so, you will take his 
 part ! I do not speak of the ecstatic happiness of seeing my 
 mother again. I have found her, thank Grod ! better than I ex- 
 pected. My Albert is also well. Dear, good friend, come and 
 spend the winter with us. What could you do better ? ' 
 
 alexandeine's journal. 
 
 * Monday, June 29th. — At last I was able to-day to kiss my 
 dearest mother. It was like meeting her again a second time, 
 and a most dehghtful moment. And my good Catiche and the 
 dear Prince too. What a nice day it has been ! When we arrived 
 at the Hotel de Richelieu, it was so pleasant to look at all the 
 things which spoke of Mamma's being there. Then our good 
 Kruger came to kiss me, and made acquaintance with two little 
 maids (and slaves) of Mamma's. We dmed all together. Every- 
 thing seemed to me so strange and so pleasant. Dear Catiche 
 made tea. I am saihng back into my old laziness, and letting 
 everybody help me. 
 
 ' Thursday, July 2nd. — At seven o'clock we left Odessa, Mam- 
 ma, Putbus, Albert, and I. The Prince had gone the day before. 
 The heat was terrible. The steppes are regular deserts without 
 trees, fields, or inhabitants. Nicolaieff, where we slept, is well 
 situated. The Churches even in the smallest villages are hand- 
 some. Their architecture reminds one of the Turkish Mosques.* 
 
 ALBERT TO HIS MOTHER AND SISTERS. 
 
 'Korsen: July 9th, 1835. 
 ' One hurried line to tell you that we arrived this evening at 
 this enchanting Korsen. I am so bewildered with wonder that I 
 
A SISTEB'S STOEY. 165 
 
 shall never be able to describe it. A beautiful situation, a mag- 
 nificent house, comforts of every sort and kind. An apartment 
 for Alex and me such as I should desire for the rest of my hfe. 
 Alex's room is lovely. Our drawing-room a perfect gem. My 
 room charming, and furnished with a huge silver toilet service ; 
 and never saw anything like my mother-in-law and the Prince's 
 apartments. The drawing-rooms and immense ball-room are full 
 of copies of the most famous statues in the Italian galleries. All 
 this is magnificent. I am forgetting to mention the orangery 
 through which we pass to our rooms. The house is on a rocky 
 eminence, with several waterfalls running from it, and from the 
 windows we see boats with floating penions. Everything is per- 
 fect, and so is our health, barring a little fatigue. Oh; if 1 could 
 but transport you here if only for one day ! When shall we hear 
 from you ? I pine for letters. What are you doing ? What 
 have you decided ? Where shall you spend the winter ? No 
 news at all, and we have been gone so long ! You never knew 
 anything so kind as my mother-in-law. If I were her own son 
 she could not take greater care of me, and the good Prince does 
 not know how to do enough to make us comfortable. They both 
 beg to be remembered to you. My mother-in-law says you are 
 to depend upon her to watch over my health, for she loves me as 
 a son, and I can assure you that this is true. Nothing can exceed 
 her goodness. Oh, if we only had you here ! What a happy 
 country-house life we should then lead ! By the way, tell us 
 when you write if my father has bought or rented a country- 
 house ? Kiss my dearest sisters, and let me, dearest mother, kiss 
 you with all my heart.' 
 
 Alexandrine in the same letter : — 
 
 * Here we are, thank God ! and everything surpasses our ex- 
 pectations. It is all so bright, so comfortable, and in such per- 
 fect taste ! Only fancy, darling sisters, that my room is all pink, 
 the bed, the curtains, the blinds, all rose-coloured silk ; a lovely 
 folding-screen, which surrounds the bed, is of the same silk, and 
 the rest of the furniture of pink velvet. In our sitting-room there 
 are two beautiful statues of white marble ; the hangings, chairs, 
 and sofas are of red silk, and from the charming table where I am 
 writing, I see from each window the most lovely views. Par- 
 terres of flowers surround the house on all sides. It is impossible 
 to describe it all to-night, and this is only to give you a little idea 
 of the place, and make you enjoy it with me. The best news of 
 all is that Albert has perfectly well borne all the fatigue. I am 
 quite astonished at it, and am now convinced that travelling, 
 whether by sea or otherwise, is good for him. 
 
166 A SISTER'S STOBY. 
 
 ' I feel the want of rest, and I must perform long ablutions before 
 lying down in my luxurious bed, so good night. Dearest mother, 
 I will write to you soon, and more sensibly. May God bless us 
 all!' 
 
 For a fortnight nothing interfered with the pleasure and repose 
 of their residence at Korsen. It was a rapturous delight to Alex- 
 andrine to be with her mother in that beautiful spot, and Albert, 
 better in health than he had been for a long time, was able to 
 share all her enjoyments. They were satisfied with the success 
 of their long journey, and were already planning future ones. 
 These days were among the happiest of their brief union. But 
 they proved brief indeed, for on the 14th of July a slight spitting 
 of blood obliged Albert to resume his life of privation and restric- 
 tions, and proved a fresh signal of the sorrows which awaited 
 them. Alexandrine relates that about that time, as she was 
 writing one evening in her pretty sitting-room, she was frightened 
 by a bat which flew across it into her bed-room, and, sitting oii 
 the top of her bed, began to scream in a way which made her 
 shudder. Not wishing to wake any one, she found it difficult to 
 get rid of the ill-omened visitor, and this circumstance, in spite of 
 herself, left on her mind a painful superstitious fear. 
 
 A few days afterwards, Albert received from his mother a lettei* 
 which gave him the greatest pleasure. It contained the news that 
 his father had just purchased the Chateau de Boury. He was 
 overjoyed at this, for thus his ardent wish to have some home in 
 Fi-ance, a meeting-place for the whole family, was carried out. 
 He laughed, sang, and was in wild spirits the whole morning, 
 Alexandrine said, but she was surprised to see that in the evening 
 he suddenly became very grave. When they were alone in their 
 room, he told her that he did not feel so well, and that he was 
 afraid he was going to spit blood again. He did not choose to 
 tell her yet that it had already begun. He walked about part of 
 the night in a state of nervous agitation he could not control. At 
 last, at his wife's entreaty, he went to bed, and was much 
 quieter for some hours. But the next day, in the afternoon, the 
 spitting of blood returned and increased. He was bled, and the 
 doctor thought the danger over for that time. Towards evening 
 Alexandrine had gone to her room to undress, but soon after, aS 
 she was going up to his bed thinking he was asleep, she heard 
 him cough, hurried to his side, and arrived just in time to find 
 him in the midst of a fresh bleeding from the lungs, and that so 
 violent, that she was struck with a terrible fear of seeing him die 
 in her arms, yet dared not leave him to call for help. She did 
 rush to the door for one minute, and cried out, 'Julian! Cleo- 
 phile !' Albert told her not to make a noise, and Alexandrine, 
 
A SISTEB'S STOEY. 167 
 
 knowing that to speak at such a moment might be fatal, ran 
 hurriedly back to him. But this terrible bleeding going on, and 
 nobody coming, she rushed out a second time quite distracted into 
 the orangery, and meeting Cleophile, cried, 'Ice! bring some ice, 
 and a doctor!' Albert's bed was soon surrounded with people, 
 and ice and bleeding in the arm at last stopped the frightfal 
 hemorrhage, but during three days the doctor declared that he 
 could not answer for his life, and insisted on his remaining per- 
 fectly silent and motionless. 
 
 Alexandrine writes : ' On one of those days I had got up very 
 early and had just been with him, going back into my own room 
 in a state of silent anguish, and scarcely daring to glance in 
 thought at the future ; I looked about me, and my pretty room 
 seemed to have lost all its rosy beauty. I stood at the window, 
 and the hues of the morning sky had no brightness in them. It 
 suddenly occurred to me to open the New Testament, and to 
 seek in its pages a solace of my lot. I did so, and my eyes fell on 
 these words, " Honour widows that are widows indeed.'' I felt as if 
 some spectre had risen up before me and uttered its cry. Even 
 in thought that horrible word ^^ widow " had never yet presented 
 itself to my mind.' 
 
 Albert ralHed quickly from this severe attack, and Alexandrine 
 was beginning to feel a little more secure, when on the 13th of 
 August, Catiche told her she thought there was blood in the sil- 
 ver basin by his side, but that it was, perhaps, some of the juice 
 of the fruit which had been his only sustenance since the morning. 
 Alexandrine was perfectly aware that so prompt a recurrence of 
 the fatal symptom would leave no hope of his life, and the excess 
 of her love and her anxiety led her to perform one of those actions 
 which might disgust certain minds, but which I record in this 
 story as a proof of self-forgetfulness and affection equal to any 
 that have been given by those who sucked a poisoned wound to 
 save the hfe of one they loved. As soon as she was alone, she took 
 up the basin and raised it to her Hps, to prove whether or not it 
 was Albert's blood, and if the fatal inward wound had opened 
 again. 
 
 A month of nursing and medical treatment ensued, and was 
 followed by a decided improvement ; so that the usual habits of 
 life were gradually resumed, and the last weeks of their residence 
 at Korsen were spent in a still anxious, but, on the whole, happy 
 manner. As soon as he was at all better, Albert's character re- 
 covered aU its sweet cheerfulness. He thought so little about 
 himself, that there is scarcely any mention made in his Journal of 
 the dangerous illness he had gone through, and nothing appears 
 in it but his natural gaiety and devoted affection for his family. 
 One day, when he was still very unwell, he wrote as follows : — 
 
168 A SISTEE'S STORY. 
 
 ' In the night from the 15th to the 16th of August, I dreamed 
 that my beloved brother Charles had fought a duel, had fired first 
 and from a distance, and that his adversary had advanced four 
 paces and shot him dead ! Fortunately that adversary was poor 
 
 C , who was killed himself in a duel three months ago. Still, 
 
 I cannot help feehng that I shall be glad to receive a letter from 
 France dated on or after the 16th of August, 1835.' And then, 
 after writing to Eugenie some grave, earnest words about them 
 both, he goes on in another strain : ' As regards matters of taste, 
 I am quite easy about you. I know you have the sort of taste I 
 like, and that you know exactly what I mean — that universal 
 good taste, which belongs to all nations, but to none in particular, 
 which is neither altogether German, French, English, Itahan, nor 
 Spanish, but a Httle of all, which has its own style in dress, man- 
 ners, and even as it were, its own special fragrance. I am sure 
 you understand this. I want you, my dear sisters, not to be 
 French or English, for that would only spoil you. Here I am at 
 the fountain-head of this sort of universal refinement, of which 
 my mother-in-law is a special instance, and I now know that it is 
 in a great measure the secret of Alex's attractiveness. Good-bye, 
 my dear, dear sister. You must henceforth direct your letters to 
 Pisa, for we are soon going to Italy by a delightful route. Let 
 me know something about Charles. 1 had a stupid dream about 
 him, which worries me. How I do long to see you all !' 
 
 This letter shows that Albert had recovered his spirits ; but it 
 was not so with Alexandrine. In spite of the undefined anxiety 
 which had more or less disturbed her since their marriage, she 
 had never till now really looked forward to the fature with serious 
 misgivings. She had always expected that Albert would grow 
 strong some day, and that all the privations he was undergoing 
 must ensure him long years of health and happiness. But after 
 his illness at Korsen, though she did not give up hope, all her 
 confidence had vanished. Her eyes were opened to the future 
 which awaited her ; and though she resolutely closed them again, 
 as far as possible, she never again recovered her child- like gaiety. 
 The following letter will show what deep sadness had taken 
 possession of her, in spite of the efforts she made to beheve her- 
 self mistaken. 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 'Korsen: August 26th, 1835. 
 
 *My dear Pauline, — I must write you a long letter, to ease 
 
 my heart a httle. It is full to bursting, and my nerves are in a 
 
 sad state. I could shed such bitter tears when I think of Albert's 
 
 illness, and of what he has abeady gone through. I left off here, 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 169 
 
 for I was tired to death. I am now a little quieter and less un- 
 happy, because, God be praised ! Albert is better, and ( which we 
 think a very good sign) not much pulled down or changed by his 
 last attack. I will not talk about that now ; the very thought of 
 it frightens me. Oh, Pauline ! I am a little comforted now, but 
 -what an anxious life I lead, and how many terrors I go through ! 
 Even when I hope for the best, and think of the time when Albert 
 will reach the blessed age of thirty, which I look forward to with 
 such intense impatience, as they do not allow me to hope for his 
 complete cure till then, I cannot help remembering that in that 
 case he will be strong, handsome, charming, full of life and spirits, 
 and that I shall have grown old, aged by care even more than by 
 years, and my health destroyed by incessant anxiety. Even that 
 is the very best I can look for, and would to God we had reached 
 the moment when my only sorrow would be that I was not young 
 and pretty enough for him ! Well, let it all be as God wills. I 
 unload my heart of these painful thoughts by imparting them to 
 you. It is a relief sometimes to complain, but God forbid I should 
 murmur. I acknowledge that I am not patient, but I hope I am 
 not envious when I compare, for instance, your lot witb mine. 
 You married, as I did, the husband of your choice, and you have 
 never had one day's anxiety about him. You are of the same 
 religion, and to obtain your wishes you had only to encounter a 
 transient opposition. You had not to break a mother's heart. 
 Oh, my Pauline, make the most of your happiness, and do not, 
 through discouragement, create imaginary sorrows for yourself. 
 Excuse this sermon from your poor old sister, but remember at 
 the same time, that I would not for the world change places with 
 any one on earth. It is because I feel this that I venture to speak 
 as I do. You can guess what I felt when I read those words of 
 your letter : — " This is the reward for all your troubles of the past 
 year ! Who would have thought, when you were so anxious at 
 Sant' Aniello, that this year you would be enjoying such a 
 charming and successful expedition ?" Oh, Pauline ! you thought 
 and wrote this, and yet in spite of this charming journey, in 
 spite of the happiness of seeing my mother again, I am more 
 sad than at Sant' Aniello; not that Albert is worse (I hope 
 he is really better), but I am now conscious of the danger which 
 then I was not aware of.' 
 
 This letter was written just before they left Korsen. It was 
 essential for them not to be overtaken by the winter season, and 
 on the 1st of September, 1835, they began their long journey.* 
 
 * At about the same time, we all left Naples for the Chateau de Boury, in 
 France, where my father had preceded us. 
 
17a A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 ALEXANDRINE S JOURNAL. 
 
 ' Korsen, Tuesday, September 1st. 
 * This morning my dearest mother came to my room before I 
 was ready. We were to start at eight o'clock. I went down to 
 have tea with her for the last time in her dear little drawing- 
 room. And then came the terrible good-byes. Mamma and I 
 remained clasped in each other's arms, and so absorbed that we did 
 not hear the clamour that was going on outside. Putbns's caleche 
 had been overturned, and it was at first thought that the coach- 
 •mam was dead. It turned out, however, that he was not even 
 hurt. We waited a little while to make sure of this, and then 
 after my poor mother had kissed and blessed me a thousand times 
 over, I had the courage to get into the carriage and leave her be- 
 hind, crying as if my heart would break.' 
 
 Albert's journal. 
 
 ' Bielotzerkoff, September 1st. 
 
 * We left that dear Korsen this morning. How sad these part- 
 ings are ; they set one against travelling. My poor mother-in- 
 law was in a terrible state at our going away. These two 
 months have passed too quickly away. I cannot describe to you 
 with what affectionate kindness the good prince and Alex's 
 mother treated me. If I had been their own son it could not have 
 been greater, and I love them as I do my own parents. Oh ! 
 why is not that palace on the banks of the Rhine, or in Italy ? 
 How different it would be then, and what happiness we should 
 find in dividing our time between our two families. That good, 
 excellent Catiche ; she too was quite like a sister to us. There 
 are persons whose lot seems self-devotion, and she is one of 
 them. 
 
 ' At the moment of starting a terrible accident happened to 
 Putbus's carriage. I can scarcely conceive how the coachman 
 escaped. The caleche was broken to pieces, and we started with- 
 out him. He will overtake us to-morrow, we hope, by travelling 
 all night. We are going to bed immediately after supper. The 
 day has been beautiful, and I do not feel the least tired. I think 
 travelling, as usual, does me good. I have just driven away a 
 whole flight of Jews, who are the pest of this country. 
 
 ' Just as I was going to bed, who should arrive but Putbus ! 
 He must have half killed his horses. He brought us a letter from 
 Korsen, written an hour after we left.' 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 171 
 
 ' Berditscheff (Podolia), September 3rd. 
 
 ' After a lovely day and a journey through a pretty country, 
 we arrived last night at Berditscheff, a small town swarming with 
 Jews. They positively assault one, and are the most infamous 
 set of people imaginable. They carry on all the chief business 
 here. When we drove in, the town was full of carriages, 
 horses, people, Polish noblemen, &c. We lodged in a private 
 house, kept by a good German, but destitute of all accommo- 
 dation. We shall start in a moment, but not with post-horses as 
 before. We trust ourselves to the Jews, which shortens the dis- 
 tance by a hundred versts, but I fancy we shall go dreadfully slowly.' 
 
 ' Novogorod, September 4th. 
 
 ' Those Jews, wretched robbers that they are, made so many 
 difficulties at the moment of starting, that we sent them about 
 their business, and had post-horses. We travelled all yesterday 
 through a well wooded country, and slept at Novogorod, which 
 seems rather a large town. But what miserable inns ! There is 
 nothing of any sort to be got, and of course nothing fit to eat. 
 fortunately, our provisions are not yet exhausted. The abomin- 
 able Jews who kept this inn, sent out last night for some plates 
 for our supper, though they had some at home, because forsooth 
 they could not eat off plates which had been used by Christians. 
 It is bitterly cold. At ten o'clock we start.' 
 
 * Ostrag, September 5th. 
 
 ' We arrived here yesterday at four o'clock. A dreadful inn 
 kept by Jews. However, one gets accustomed to everything, and 
 we made ourselves tolerably comfortable in this kennel. Ostrag is 
 a small town, with old walls in ruins, and in the principal square a 
 large dilapidated Church, which used to belong to the Jesuits, 
 who were expelled under the Emperor Alexander. The architec- 
 ture of the Church and cloisters is Italian. The Jewish country- 
 women all wear caps embroidered with pearls ; sometimes very 
 beautiful ones. The mistress of the house here has even dia- 
 monds in her head-dress. We start in an hour, and cross the 
 frontier to-day, unless they detain us at Hadziviloff for our pass- 
 ports, and there we part with our good doctor (Heinrich Triits- 
 chel, of Westphalia), who returns to Korsen.' 
 
 ' Eadziviloff, Wednesday, September 9th. 
 
 * We are just on the point of quitting Kussia. We arrived here 
 yesterday rather early, but what a place ! In two hours we shall 
 start for Brody, which is about one hour's distance from here, and 
 where we shall probably have to remain two or three days for 
 our passports. 
 
 * The E/Ussian and Austrian frontiers meet here. After having 
 
172 A SISTERTS 8T0RT. 
 
 gone through at great length all the required formalities of the 
 former, we stepped over to the latter, and the Austrians tried our 
 patience a little also. They did not, however, retain us long at 
 the custom-house. Soon afterwards we arrived at Brody, where 
 we are at length in something like a European town. The post- 
 boys wanted to carry us to an inn which they patronize, but we 
 insisted on coming to the Hotel de Russie, which is really com- 
 fortable. I am afraid we shall have to stay here some time wait- 
 ing for our passports, which were sent on to Lemberg. The 
 country we have travelled through for some days past is almost 
 wholly Catholic. It is the predominant religion in Podolia, and 
 here almost the only one.'* 
 
 ' Lemberg, Monday, September 9tli. 
 
 * After a very tiresome sojourn of a day and a half at Brody, 
 we came on to Lemberg. The country seemed pretty ; the hills 
 well wooded, the villages clean, the roads good. We arrived 
 here late, the Hotel de Russie was full, and we were obliged to 
 put up at a miserable inn. A bad supper, but I went to bed 
 immediately, feeling tired and ill. After a good night I awoke 
 much refreshed. 
 
 * I heard Mass in a fine Church, a little spoilt by a multiplicity 
 of ornaments in wretched taste, with which the devotion of the 
 inhabitants has encumbered the altars and walls. A great number 
 of men, almost all of them young, were hearing Mass or praying 
 without any affectation or human respect at the different altars. 
 I was struck with the expression of all their faces, both of the 
 men and women. Most of them were good-looking, especially 
 the young girls. Their eyes, here and there, reminded me of 
 Hedwig, but there were quantities of hideous old women in the 
 
 style of good Madame . I was so happy to be in a Catholic 
 
 Church again, and to hear Mass. I have been in a sadly tepid 
 state for some time past. What has become of that fervour I 
 used to feel ? Have I lost it by my carelessness ? Has God with- 
 drawn from me, because I no longer thought of Him, still less 
 felt devotion in His service ? Oh, how the soul loses all its light 
 when it no longer draws it from Him ! How it creeps when it 
 does not lift itself up to God ! Oh, shame, shame, upon me ! 
 But yet have mercy upon me, ! my God ! Return again to 
 Thy servant, who has so often and so basely forsaken Thee !' 
 
 ' Land^hut, Friday, September 11th. 
 ' We arrived here yesterday after a pouring wet day. The 
 rain did not cease for a siagle instant. This Avhole country is in 
 
 * It must not be lost sight of that these notes were written in 1835. Every- 
 thing has since changed for the worse in these unhappy provinces. 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 173 
 
 the hands of Polish noblemen. Yesterday we passed by Prze- 
 worsk, the property of Prince Henri Lubomirsky. How won- 
 derfully things turn out ! Who could have imagined when I saw- 
 so much of them at ISTaples two years ago, that this year I should 
 see their home in this distant country ? The house seemed 
 charming, and prettily situated in the midst of a beautiful park. 
 But they told us that the family were not at home, and indeed 
 they are all at Prague. This place belongs to Count Alfred 
 Potocki. It is a pity that our way of travelling does not allow 
 us the pleasure of seeing something of these fine country houses, 
 and of enjoying that Polish hospitality which has so great a 
 reputation.' 
 
 ' Tamow, Saturday, September 12th. 
 
 ' Tamow belongs to the Sangusko family. It is a tolerably 
 large town, and the Hotel de Cracovie, where we are staying, is 
 kept by a valet of Prince Lubomirsky's, who was with him at 
 Naples two years before. I heard here that Prince Henri was 
 after all at home when we passed through his estates. I am 
 very sorry not to have seen him. It was his wife and daughter 
 who were absent. We may perhaps meet them at Vienna. The 
 papers say that the cholera is decidedly at Leghorn. What 
 shall we do in that case, and where shall we go ?' 
 
 ' Cracow, Monday, September 14th. 
 ' We have been here since the day before yesterday, and lodged 
 in a dog-kennel, for all the good hotels were full. Yesterday 
 morning. Baron Sternberg came in, and there was a most 
 affectionate meeting between him and Alex. He is an old friend 
 of Count d'Alopeus ; and she looks upon him and all them whom 
 she knew at the time of her father's death as real friends. He 
 took my fancy at once, and seems an excellent man. We drove 
 with him to see the town, and were deeply interested with the 
 Castle, the ancient residence of the kings of Poland. The Cathe- 
 dral, a beautiful Church dedicated to our Blessed Lady, containing 
 the tombs of many of the kings and princes of Poland. The town 
 is charming ; it abounds in magnificent churches, and on every 
 side extend the most varied and lovely views. The Crapach 
 Mountains separate us from Hungary. This city, sole remnant 
 of the kingdom of Poland, is curious enough. It is a free town, 
 and has its own president, senate, and little army. It is 
 surrounded on every side by Austria, Prussia, and Russia. The 
 Austrian territory comes up actually to the city gates. It is 
 really a curious thing this little remnant of the poor kingdom of 
 Poland, which has been suffered to exist by the three powers lately 
 because none of them would consent to cede it to the others. 
 
174 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 It is perhaps destined to form the nucleus of a new Poland, 
 or will more probably fall a prey before long to the rapacity of 
 one or the other of its great and jealous neighbours. 
 
 ' The famous salt mines, which are one of the wonders of the 
 world, are two miles from here. . . . Alex is gone to see them 
 with Putbus and M. de Sternberg. I could not venture on this 
 expedition on account of the cold and damp of the mines. 
 Another of the privations inflicted upon me by my precious 
 health ! Yesterday we dined with M. de Sternberg, who showed 
 jne a charming portrait of Alexandrine, which I should like to 
 steal. The eyes and mantle are perfect. Nothing can be uglier, to 
 be sure, than the arrangement of the dress and hair ; but if I had 
 it, those defects should be quickly removed. We are to dine 
 with Putbus when they come back, and to-morrow we start for 
 Vienna.' 
 
 alexandrine's journal. 
 
 * Monday, September 14th. 
 
 * This morning before nine o'clock, I left my poor Albert, and 
 drove to Williczka with Putbus and Sternberg. We were taken 
 into a large shed ; when some planks were removed, and then we 
 plunged into the bowels of the earth. At the sight of the depths, 
 and the ropes by which we were to descend, I felt frightened, but 
 made up my mind to sit down on one of the five seats upon 
 which sight-seers descend into the abyss. They made each of us 
 put on a kind of white dressing-gown, to prevent our clothes 
 from being spoiled. The descent lasted about five minutes. It 
 was a very new and strange sensation. Fortunately we did not 
 go down fast. Other lifts below ours, were filled with men 
 carrying lighted torches. At first the earth was very damp, but 
 as we went lower, it became quite dry. 
 
 ' The first thing we saw on reaching the bottom was a vast 
 space closed in with walls of salt. There were several machines 
 worked by horses, but no human beings remain long in this part 
 of the mine. We went and got a little further down, and all at 
 once found ourselves in the midst of a fantastically beautiful 
 scene. An immense lustre of salt illuminated the wide sparkling 
 roof in every direction, and lit up numberless grottoes and caves 
 of the same material. Oh, what wonders exist under the earth 
 as well as on it and above it ! The further we advanced the 
 more picturesque and dazzling became the effects of light pro- 
 duced by the hght of our guides' torches. After walking for 
 some time we came to the brink of a lake, the water of which 
 was as black as ink. We crossed this lake in a boat, and on the 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 175. 
 
 other side came upon the gigantic salt statue of St. John Nepo- 
 mucene, which is placed here, and in all parts of this country, by 
 the waterside to commemorate his heroism in submitting to be 
 drowned, rather than reveal the confession of his murderer's 
 wife. Further on we descended by torchlight into marvellous 
 depths, at the further extremity of which is a beautiful Chapel, 
 excavated in the salt, and full of statues of the same material. 
 The effect is singularly fine. Afterwards we saw a ball-room 
 illuminated with lustres also of salt. They told us that Souwa- 
 roff had given a ball here, and that a Russian officer had been 
 married in the same place. After spending at least two hours in 
 the midst of these splendid marvels, we returned to the surface 
 in the same way as we had gone down. I had grown more bold, 
 and could bear then to look below and about me. The whole 
 time it seems as if one must be dashed against the walls, but 
 thanks to the skill of the guides, who direct the machine with a 
 small hatchet, no collision took place. Sternberg made us eat 
 something at Williczka, and then I returned to my dear Albert. 
 After I had slept a little while we both dined with Putbus, and 
 they came to tea with us in our room. 
 
 ' September 15th. — Slept comfortably at Wadowice. 
 
 * 16th. — At Teschen, where we heard a mihtary band, which 
 enchanted me. 
 
 ' 17th. — We passed through Friedeck, a place delightfully 
 situated in a picturesque, pretty, cheerful country. I hope 
 Boury will be like it. We slept at Weisskirch. 
 
 ' September 18th. — I had a painful dream last night, that 
 Albei-t was spitting blood again. Our caleche broke dovni to- 
 day, and we were obliged to get out in the most dreadful wind, 
 and to get into Putbus's carriage. This accident forced us also 
 to sleep at Rosnitz, and to stay there the whole day. 
 
 ' September 20th. Vienna. — We got up at 4 o'clock a.m. It 
 was a beautiful morning. To-day the most trying part of our 
 journey is ended, which nevertheless has had its pleasant mo- 
 ments. At last we saw Vienna, (the Church of St. Stephen is 
 discernible from a distance), and soon we were driving through 
 that most beautiful approach to the Archduke Charles's hotel, 
 where we shall stay some days.' 
 
 ALBERT TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 ' My beloved Mother, — Here we are at Vienna, after a journey 
 of twenty days, which I have borne very well. On the whole, 
 travelling seems to do me more good than anything else. 
 
176 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 * We had the pleasure of finding your letter of the 1st of 
 September here, and like yourselves we are in the greatest un- 
 certainty as to our plans. The terrible cholera is in Italy ; very 
 bad at Leghorn, and two cases already at Pisa. What are we to 
 do ? What I should most like would be to follow your sugges- 
 tion, and at once join you. We are thinking very much of this, 
 but the doctors must be consulted before we decide. This morn- 
 ing I went to see the celebrated physician, Malfati, who asked 
 me if I was the son of the Ambassador and Minister, M. le 
 Comte de la Ferronnays, for whom he had the greatest regard ? 
 *' Exactly so," I answered. He is to come to-morrow. Alex 
 will show him all the prescriptions for my case, make all the 
 explanations, and after having read, listened, thought, and con- 
 sidered, he will feel my pulse, and give his opinion as to where 
 we are to spend the winter. 
 
 ' September 23rd. — I end this horrible scrawl with Malfati's 
 decision as to our winter quarters. He sends us to Venice, 
 which, as he says, being nothing but one great ship, will suit me 
 better than any other place, as the sea is just what I want. It 
 seems to me rather absurd to go to Italy when everybody else is 
 flying from it, but Malfati insists that the cholera will not touch 
 Venice, and if it does, that we can take refuge either in Trieste 
 or Ancona, if it does not break out in the Roman States. I 
 think with him that it is not likely to spread all over Italy at 
 the same time, and that if it advances from Leghorn towards 
 poor Naples, Venice will be preserved, at least for some time. Do 
 not be uneasy, and rely upon my caution in this matter. 
 
 ' I need not tell you anything about Vienna, for you know it 
 well. The life we lead here makes us long to get to our winter 
 quarters. All day long we are running about, as there are so 
 many people and things to see. Princess Lubomirska is here, and 
 Count Zichy. You complain of the cold, while here everybody 
 is wondering at the beauty of the weather. It is now like Italy 
 — but this will not in all probability last long.* 
 
 ALBERT TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 ' Vienna, September 29tli. 
 * My dearest Mother,— We positively start to-morrow for 
 Vienna, where we establish ourselves for the winter, provided 
 the cholera does not drive us away ; but before I go' on to tell 
 you about that, I must speak of a provoking thing that has hap-' 
 pened to us here. Some days after our arrival, it suddenly 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 177 
 
 occurred to me that as Louis de Blacas was in the Austrian 
 service, he might very well happen to be here. I enquired, and 
 found that he generally stays at the Hotel de Londres. I rushed 
 to the said hotel, and was told that the duke, the duchess, and 
 the little duhes, had been there for the last six days ! We made 
 great exclamations, and desired to be at once shown up to my 
 aunt's room,* but everybody was out. In the evening we 
 called again, aud were sent away by a goose of a porter, though 
 my aunt was at home and expecting us. At last, this morning, 
 at nine o'clock, she came with three of her sons to our hotel, and 
 found Alexandrine only just out of bed. A quarter of an hour 
 afterwards, my uncle arrived, and then hurried back again, for 
 they were to start at eleven o'clock. Alex dressed as quickly as 
 possible (wonderful to relate, in half an hour !) and we went 
 off, post haste to the Hotel de Londres, to spend a few minutes 
 more with them. At eleven they left for Prague, and we went 
 with Louis to his barracks. He dines with us to-day. We find 
 him very much grown, drill and military carriage have greatly 
 improved his figure. My aunt was as usual most perfect and 
 kind ; my uncle as amiable and gracious as possible to Alexan- 
 drine. I hope they were pleased with her. You vdll tell me 
 what they say. But was it not strange and provoking to be for 
 seven days in the same place without meeting ? Stanislaus is 
 like Fernand ; Xavier still keeps his pretty childish face. 
 
 ' Malfati prophesies wonders from the climate of Yenice. He 
 has prescribed a course of gold dust, which he says will work a 
 perfect cure. I am to swallow every morning a few particles of 
 
 it. This sounds like a joke — but we shall see. We found 
 
 here, who is very kind to us. He dines with us to-day, and, 
 without thinking of it, I also asked Louis de Blacas ! What 
 
 would M. de have said of this acquaintanceship, and of our 
 
 intimacy with Mr. 0' Sullivan, the Belgian Minister? For the 
 life of me I cannot manage to trouble myself about these little 
 political squabbles ; and, if some of my relations are to disown 
 me for associating with such people, I must e'en resign myself 
 to it. 
 
 On the 1st of October, 1835, Alexandrine appeared in evening 
 dress for the last time of her life. It was the eve of their depar- 
 ture from Vienna, at a dinner given by the Comte de la Roche- 
 foucauld, the French charge d'affaires. She was in white, with 
 a set of mediaeval jewels, which she was fond of wearing. Little 
 did she think that ifc was for the last time. After dinner they 
 
 * The Duchesse de Blacas was Mm. de la Ferronnays' sister. 
 
 N 
 
178 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 went to the opera, wMcli was " Norma,'' and this was also the last 
 time she ever entered a theatre or went to a public amnse- 
 ment. 
 
 The following day, the 2nd of October, they left Vienna, and, 
 travelling slowly, reached, on the 8th, the Italian frontier. Connt 
 Putbus had left for Paris on the same day they started for Venice ; 
 he was to join them there afterwards. 
 
 At Ponteba Alexandrine wrote : — 
 
 * This entrance to Italy is like all the others, very beautiful 
 and grand, but to my mind not so striking. As we advance, 
 however, we see fig-trees again, and all the rich vegetation of 
 the South. Oh ! beloved Italy, this is the fifth time I approach 
 thee, and always with fresh delights ! Oh ! may Albert find 
 health in thee ! It does one good to feel the climate softening, 
 and it is a pleasure to look at the houses, so unlike those of 
 Germany. Yet when I wished Albert good-night at Ospedaletto, 
 he told me he had a foreboding that Italy would work him woe. 
 . . . 0! my God, my God!' 
 
 As Alexandrine was copying this part of her journal in 1843, 
 seven years afterwards, at Brussels, she broke off her narrative, 
 and wrote the following words : — 
 
 * And now, after so many afflictions, my passion for Italy still 
 remains the same, or rather it has strengthened, for I know now 
 why I love it. I know the secret of that fragrance which exhales 
 from Italy. Ah, yes, I love, and shall always love it, for its 
 people believe in an eternal Home, and possess unseen friends 
 whom they invoke in their joys and sorrows. I love it because 
 in all its cities an ever-present God is worshipped on His altars 
 by adoring crowds ; because it has been foremost in everything 
 which exalts mankind, and has laid its renown at the feet of 
 God ; because its people have excelled in every form of beauty, 
 yet have not sought ambition and their own glory. 
 
 ' I love this country, where both hearts and flowers give out 
 a sweeter perfume than elsewhere ; which gave birth to St. 
 Francis of Assisi, and to that other meek saint bearing the same 
 name, and to so many men and women saints, Avith ardent, 
 loving hearts, where, at every step, we meet the sons of St. Bene- 
 dict, St. Dominic, St. Francis, and St. Ignatius, and many whose 
 names are written beside theirs in the Book of Life. Where, in 
 the depths of the cloister, and the obscurity of many a poor 
 village, holy and hidden lives are closed by saintly deaths. I 
 love this country, for in it is the city of the Vicar of Christ, the 
 holy city Rome, where so much virtue has been practised 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 179 
 
 through all ages, and where all the great benefactors of humanity 
 have come to gather strength and light. 
 
 ' Ah ! yes, I love this land of corn and wine, which spring 
 up and overflow as if they hastened to abound for the great 
 Mysteries of the Altar. This land so dear to the heart, so fair 
 to the eye, that it seems as if one's last dying thoughts might 
 be :^-" 1^0 w, I am about to see something more glorious than 
 Italy!'" 
 
 After this out-pouring, Alexandrine went on with her record, 
 inserting the passages and letters she had written at the time. 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 • Pordenore, October 9th, 1835. 
 
 * My dear little Sister, — Since yesterday we are in Italy. I 
 bless God for it, and I do hope it will be the means of restoring 
 Albert's health. I feel more passionately fond of this country 
 than ever. I am always so enchanted to return to it. There is 
 music in the street at this moment ; such fine voices, singing 
 familiar airs ! Albert is as delighted to be here as I am. I like 
 to be writing to you whilst listening to this singing. There is a 
 charm, a perfume, an indescribable attraction about Italy, all 
 the more remarkable because there is so much that one hears 
 continually found fault with. Do you not also feel this smania 
 for Italy ? All other countries seem to me so cold and common- 
 place in comparison. It is only the East and Spain I fancy, 
 which possess the same kind of poetical charm. 
 
 * What will you say to this burst of enthusiasm ? My letters 
 have been more than common-place lately. Well, you see we 
 have come safely so far, and to-morrow, please Glod, we shall be 
 at Venice. Only think, those singers — to whom we sent down a 
 zwanziger — came up-stairs, and have been singing and acting for 
 us, " Tin Segreto d/Importanza,^^ whilst I was writing all this. 
 They act admirably, and I wish that you and Eugenie could 
 have heard the prima donna sing " La Borneo.'^ ' 
 
 They did arrive at Venice the next day, Saturday, the 10th of 
 October, and the following letter from Alexandrine to M. de 
 Montalembert, is dated the 15th October, 1835. At the top of 
 the first page of this letter, these words were written : 
 
 ( ' Albert does not like the first page of my letter, but I do 
 hope, my dear friend, that you will not be angry with me for 
 what I say, nor think it comes from any bad feeling.') 
 
 N 2 
 
180 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 ' My dear Montal, — I am going to write you a volume, though 
 
 I have not much time, because ever since Albert received at 
 
 Vienna your letter of the 31st, I have been composing the said 
 
 volume in my head. Whether you have time to read it or not, 
 
 write it I must. 
 
 ****** 
 
 ' If you knew Albert's life better, you would not think him so 
 much happier than yourself, What man of his age would not 
 feel it a great trial to be shackled during his best years by a 
 multiplicity of restraints, and to be condemned with a singularly 
 quiet and active disposition, to complete quiescence ; to suffer 
 more or less every day, causing anxiety to a wife that he loves. 
 For my own part, I do not believe in any great inequality of 
 happiness. I believe in compensation. They seem to me to consist 
 with our ideas of God's justice, and I have so often had oppor- 
 tunities of observing the erroneous nature of men's judgments 
 with reg8rd to the happiness or the unhappiness of others, that 
 I am inclined to think — generally speaking — that the beggar is 
 no worse off than the person from whom he begs, and if the 
 latter has troubles of conscience, then without doubt he is the 
 most miserable of the two. 
 
 ' I have been married eighteen months, and without any 
 exaggeration, there have not been fifteen days in which I have 
 been free from anxiety about Albert's health. Ever since I have 
 known him, how much suffering and trouble have always been 
 mixed up with my happiness ! What did not I go through 
 when I thought he was dying at Civita Vecchia, and I was not 
 allowed to see him ! Do you not think that these continual 
 terrors, and that obstinate disease, are, to say the least of it, as 
 great a trial to me as is for you the one you speak of ? . . 
 
 ' October 23rd. — I have left this letter unfinished for the last 
 week, but I will go on with it now, for I feel I must unburden 
 myself thoroughly. Let me speak to you with the greatest open- 
 ness. I should deal as freely as a sister with you, for a sister 
 could not love you better than I. I have also a sorrow akin to 
 yours, which is continually on my mind. There is nothing that 
 would make me so happy as to be of the same religion as Albert; 
 but besides the doubts I still have, I am kept back by the feelings 
 that I should break my beloved mother's heart ; that mother to 
 whom I owe the happiness of being Albert's wife. I should 
 break her heart inwardly, and perhaps bodily, too. I know she 
 will never believe that Catholics think it possible that those of 
 another faith can be saved. And how could a mother bear such 
 a thought ? Indeed, if I should be obliged to believe that my 
 poor father was excluded from salvation, and that by making 
 
A SISTER'S STOET. 181 
 
 my ctoice between two religions, I was separating myself from 
 him for ever, I believe I should forsake Albert, who is sure of 
 Heaven, and cleave to my poor father, like the Pagan prince.' 
 (Here she relates at length the story already quoted, of which 
 she was so fond, of an unbaptized heathen king.) ' I fear that 
 with your usual severity you will stigmatize this as weakness. 
 But I remember that you were very much touched by what is 
 said   of the mother of Tobias, who would not be comforted for her 
 son's departure, though it was Almighty God who commanded 
 him to go. Well, it was weakness, but nobody thinks of blaming 
 her. My position is a painful one, and I cannot help rejoicing 
 that I have not yet made up my mind, and I do not wish for 
 instruction, or to be convinced that it would be my duty to go 
 against my mother on this point. Dear friend, if you have any 
 charity you will pity, and not condemn me. I try as much as I 
 can to cast this, my heavy burthen, on our Blessed Lord. I also 
 ask the Virgin and Saints to pray for me, for I believe in their 
 intercession in some sort of way, more than I do in some others 
 of your doctrines. It is your Pope whom I cannot yet believe 
 in.' (Alexandrine wrote afterwards on the margin of this page, 
 * And now if I did not believe in the Pope, I should not feel that 
 I was a Christian.') ' Well, I hope God's goodness will deliver 
 me from this torture and difficulty which embitter my life. T 
 ^ope, for I have that blessing which the Divine Mercy has made 
 a virtue. Who is it that said : " That m^ust he a Divwie religion 
 which makes a virtue of hope^ Dear friend, I wanted to say it, 
 You do not hope enough. It. is a fault as well as a misfortune. 
 You see that Albert and I, whom you envy, have also sorrows, 
 though God forbid we should not gratefully acknowledge our 
 happiness too. And do you think that there are not many people 
 who envy you ? You have religion, learning, and poetry, for 
 your friends, and good friends they are. Then, how many 
 interests there are in your life ; and does our friendship go quite 
 for nothing ? You always forget us, Albert and me ! 
 
 ' When I remember that after the first days of awe and 
 reverence you inspired me with, I grew so bold as to throw eau- 
 de-Cologne and orris powder at you, and got you to order me a 
 bonnet, I feel you must forgive everything ! . . . , But, dear 
 friend, ' I must really now leave off, for you must be bored to 
 death with this long scribble. Who knows if you will even read 
 it ? Please write to me very soon. We have heard of your 
 speech in the Chamber of Peers ; how I should like to read it : 
 and how I wish we may see you soon ! Were you ever at 
 Venice ? It is so interesting. Always your sister and friend, 
 
 ' Alex,* 
 
182 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 ALEXANDEINE TO PAULINE AND EUGENIE. 
 
 ' Venice, October 27th, 1835. 
 
 ' Grood-niglit, my dear sisters, I am not the least inclined to 
 write. The sirocco is dreadful. It is quite as oppressive at Ve- 
 nice as at Naples, and I feel for the first time that nervous effect 
 of it which my mother and Albert used to complain of, viz., a 
 difficulty in forming the letters in writing, so read this letter if 
 you can. I have a great smania to see you again, my darling 
 sisters. We certainly see very little of each other since we have 
 been sisters, and were much oftener together when we were only 
 friends. Have you — any of you — I want to know, had the sha- 
 dow of a doubt as to what we should have chosen, had it been a 
 matter of pleasure, between spending the winter here, or at Boury, 
 with that dear family-party where we are the only missing ones ? 
 I must say, it would vex me to think that your father had such a 
 doubt, and for his own satisfaction I should like him to be con- 
 vinced that Boury could not be so good for Albert's health as 
 Venice or Pisa. As to the moral good and comfort it would have 
 given him to spend this winter with you all, there can be no two 
 opinions about it ; and you know well enough how I like and en- 
 joy our large gatherings. But as I am quite aware that this 
 place is far better for his health, I am glad we are here. It is 
 also impossible not to love Italy ; and Venice is in the highest 
 degree interesting, so I cheerfully make up my mind to what the 
 doctors, not ourselves, decided. 
 
 ' And now, Madame, and Mademoiselle, how comes it that you 
 do not write a line to your poor sister-in-law Alex, who sends you 
 whole volumes, to which you do not vouchsafe the least bit of an 
 answer ? And she who holds so much to getting answers to what 
 she says. Mademoiselle Eugenie, on the day of her arrival at 
 Paris, scribbles very deceitfully to that poor Alexandrine, " ' How 
 can I like Paris when I have not time to write to you ? '" Oh, 
 what an untruth ! and now that she has left Paris not one line 
 does she send me ; not one poor little description of Boury, which 
 I am dying to be able to picture to myself. 
 
 ' As to Madame Pauline, she writes a letter certainly on the 
 12th of September, which perfectly satisfies me (I beg to say that 
 this is not always the case) ; but in that letter she promises an- 
 other, which was to follow immediately, and now a month has 
 passed, and no such letter has appeared ! Your parents write 
 much oftener than you ; you ought to be ashamed of yourselves, 
 young ladies ! Another family defect is to write without answer- 
 ing, and to repeat questions which have already been answered. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 183 
 
 Still, on the whole, you are not a bad set of correspondents. My 
 father-in-law in his last letter praises our dear Eagenie immensely; 
 and Albert (rather uncivil to his wife, I think !) says that she is 
 more delightful and captivating than either you, Pauline, or I ! 
 Good-bye, Eugenie; love me, and write to me. I love you dearly. 
 God bless you ! Tell Fernand, when he comes, to bring me some 
 songs, and all the music he can steal from the pianoforte at Boury, 
 without creating too much notice ; I have left all mine at Leg- 
 horn, and do not want to send for it.' 
 
 EUGENIE TO ALEXANDEINE. 
 
 ' Boury, November 5th, 1835. 
 
 * Did anybody ever write that it had entered into anybody's 
 head to imagine, that you were spending the winter out of choice 
 at Venice instead of with us ? When we talk of nothing else 
 here than of Jrour taste for family parties and a country life, and 
 that we are all longing for your return, because we know how 
 you will make us enjoy our home ! It is true that we had for 
 a moment been foolish enough to think you might have spent 
 the vrinter at Boury, and our heads being full of that notion, we 
 were a little disappointed when we heard of Venice. But now, 
 if you only knew how sorry we should be that you were here ! 
 It is only November yet, and we are suffering so much from the 
 cold, that we do not know where to sit, or how to light fires 
 enough. The wind is piercing, and the idea of Albert crossing 
 these cold passages, and going up and down these icy staircases, 
 makes one quite shiver. Oh, no, dear friends, God keep you 
 safely in Italy, for if we feel the difference of climate so much, 
 what would it be for him ? 
 
 ' Oh, Alex, how often I long to be with you, and to begin again 
 at Venice, not the anxieties, but the Sorrento sort of life, and to 
 help you, dear, dearest sister, in all your minute daily cares. You 
 are so loveable in that sort of intimacy.' 
 
 Fernand in the same letter : 
 
 * How do you do, dear little friends ? Whilst Eugenie writes 
 a note to Emma, which I am to take, I have seized on a pen, and 
 beg to announce that you will soon see me. Dear people, I wish 
 I could write something that would amuse you, but I am afraid I 
 cannot ; I have no funny ideas. Eugenie's note is finished, and I 
 must go. Good-bye, dear little people. Tell dear old Albert, with 
 my love, that I shall bring with me lots of music, novels, plays, 
 scraps, and chit-chat to amuse you with this winter. Good-bye.' 
 
184 A SISTER'S STORY, 
 
 ^ 
 
 Eugenie goes on : 
 
 ' What a man that Fernand is ! he writes such a large hand, 
 and wastes no end of paper. I must tell you that my throat is in 
 a very bad state since my return to France. It has been so pain- 
 ful lately that I am not allowed to sing or to read aloud, and I may 
 soon be forbidden even to speak ! My voice is almost gone, any 
 if I sing for a minute, I am quite exhausted. I am taking a sort 
 of syrup which is to do me good, I am told, but hitherto it seems 
 rather to hurt me. My poor singing is what I most regret. The 
 doctor says if I want to get well I must be a whole year with- 
 out using my voice. It is the sharp, sudden cold which has 
 seized me by the throat like a robber. Olga's eyes are worse too; 
 the cold does not suit her either. Think, then, how happy I must 
 be that your dear husband is not exposed to it. Albertine is at 
 the convent, very well, very good, gaining prizes, and preparing 
 for her First Communion. My dear friends, here is another letter 
 from you ! Dear Alex, it is like yourself to be always doing 
 everything to keep up your own spirits and those of others. I 
 am sure you dote on that Englishman who has been worse than 
 Albert, and who is now quite well again, thanks to Venice air ! 
 
 ' Well, now I must have done. I hope my letter is long enough. 
 and that I have made up for past deficiencies. I did not lose sight 
 of you a minute, and henceforward I shall always write with your 
 last letter open before me. I shall in that way be certain to 
 answer exactly. 
 
 * Good-bye, my dear friend, whom I love with all my heart, 
 and admire with all my mind. God bless you both, for two such 
 little people are not easily found on earth ! ' 
 
 ALBERT TO HIS PARENTS. 
 
 ' Tenice, November 17th. 
 
 * My dear Father and sweet Mother, — I answer your dear letters 
 of the 30th and 31st at the same time. I see you have evidently 
 given up for the present all idea of coming to Italy. We are 
 very sorry for it, but understand all the difficulties in the way. 
 Yet all you say about your health, my dear father, makes me 
 afraid of the winter for you either at Paris or Boury. 
 
 ' Dearest Mother, perhaps you don't know that you have 
 written me the most enchanting letter. But I cannot yet answer 
 all your questions, for I have only been twice to St. Mark's, and 
 am, indeed, delighted with its wonderful and mysterious archi- 
 tecture, which far exceeds my expectations. Venice cannot be 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 185 
 
 understood in our day; but tlie more I see that magnificent 
 Piazza, the dome of St. Mark, and the Campanile, the more I 
 am in love with them. Our apartment is charming, and the view 
 from it lovely, which, besides all the other reasons, make us 
 prefer Venice a thousand times to Pisa. You ask me how we 
 came into Italy this time ; we passed, as you did, through Pon- 
 tebg,. Though this entrance is less beautiful than any of the 
 others, we had a feeling like that of love for one's native land 
 when we heard the " Si Signore,'' instead of the tongue of our 
 heavy, tiresome, German post boys. We passed through Klagen- 
 farth, and thought, dearest Father and Mother, of your having 
 been married there. 
 
 ' We can form no plans as yet, but towards the spring we fully 
 intend to make our way to France. I am dying to get there. 
 We love you with our whole hearts. We live with you in 
 thought, and long for the time when we shall share your dear 
 family life. Fernand's arrival is what we are now impatiently 
 looking forward to, and we talk of nothing but what we shall do 
 when he comes. According to my usual habit, I do not mention 
 m.y health, for the good reason that it is capital. . 
 
 In spite of the confidence these letters seem to imply, the fol- 
 lowing passage in one of Alexandrine's shows the sad anxiety 
 she was feeling. She used to conquer it, and to force herself to 
 trust. Nevertheless, that time was one of deeper melancholy to 
 her than any other of her life. Earthly joys were vanishing from 
 her grasp, and she had not yet found the happiness which God 
 alone can give. 
 
 * Oh, if in the grave there is a sense of being asleep, a quiet 
 awaiting of God's judgment, with a conscience unburthened mth 
 any great crime, a repose not without thought, but free from the 
 puzzling troubles of earth, then there may be something sweeter 
 in the feeling that one's lot is fulfilled, than in all this world can 
 offer: for whatever joys are to be found in it, they are always mingled 
 with anxiety or shame — both intolerable drawbacks. I do not, 
 perhaps, express what I mean, but the real truth is that I pine 
 for repose, and if old age or death itself can give it me, I shall 
 welcome them both. If this seems to you very sad, do not attach 
 importance to it. I have a headache ; but I am in good spirits 
 in spite of these thoughts.' Seven years afterwards, by the side 
 of those words, ' I pine for repose ; if old age or d^ath can give it 
 me, I shall welcome them both,' she wrote on the margin, ^Before 
 old age and death, Faith has gi/ven me this repose.' 
 
18G A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 EUGENIE TO ALEXANDRINE. 
 
 * Boury, November IStli. — Friday evening in my room, by 
 such a good fire ! Only I wish it was not Friday, and the 13th! 
 
 ' My poor dear Fernand is sitting talking to me for the last 
 time. He starts to-morrow, and though I am very glad he goes 
 to you, it makes me not a little sad to part with him. We are 
 so happy, and get on so beautifully together ! 
 
 ' I had a quarrel with Pauline the other day. It arose from a 
 sentence in her letter to you, which I chanced to read. We both 
 cried, and then we kissed each other, and finally we agreed to 
 tell you all about it, and said that you were a charming judge, 
 before whom everything may be laid. But do you not know 
 what we said besides ? We agreed that nothing can be com- 
 pared to the time between fifteen and twenty, and that however 
 happy one may be later, those years are the most perfect in life, it 
 may be, because one is less conscious of it. There is then an instinc- 
 tive want of j oy, affection, and amusement, and not the least misgiving 
 as to attaining them. The path which leads to them seems so 
 bright and fair. The scent of flowers is ecstacy in those days, 
 and fine weather makes one jump for joy. The mind is full of 
 everything and nothing. I have entered upon a wide subject. 
 I have not time to go on with it. Here is poor Fernand wishing 
 me goodbye. He goes at five o'clock in the morning. Oh, I 
 am very sorry for it. Poor dear brother ! So there must be 
 always partings.' 
 
 The quarrel of which Eugenie speaks in this letter arose from 
 my having fancied that, in a circumstance which had lately 
 occurred, she had not spoken to me with her usual frankness, 
 and I had expressed this doubt and fear in a letter which hap- 
 pened to fall into her hands. This grieved her, for it was the 
 first time I had said anything to our sister-in-law which I had 
 not said to her. We agreed to refer the matter to Alexandrine, 
 who decided that I was quite in the wrong. LreceiveqL her 
 letter at Paris, where I was spending a few days, and sent it on 
 to Eugenie, at Boury. But dear Eugenie was never inclined to 
 assent to a judgment favourable to herself and unfavourable to 
 me; and she was very ill-pleased with Alexandrine's verdict. 
 She wrote me a dear letter on the occasion. 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 'Boury, Tuesday. 
 
 * My dear little darling Pauline, — You are quite right to 
 forbid my writing to Alex, for I am very angry with her. You 
 need not be afraid of my accusing you. I accuse you ! Why 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 187 
 
 tlie very thouglit of it makes me cry ! especially when I was the 
 one really to blame ! Did I not go and complain to her, and 
 was not all this trouble my own fault ? It was wrong, wrong, 
 and all my fault. Forgive me, for it was my doing. Nothing, 
 nothing on earth can create the least coldness between us —   
 our souls are Hnked together like the bodies of the Siamese 
 twins. What hurts one hurts the other. We may live and act 
 separately, but we must always feel and love alike. My darling 
 Pauline, forgive me for having been the cause of the harsh 
 words which our mutual friend has written. Would I had been 
 there to kiss away the tears from your dear eyes ! Promise me 
 that you will write to Alexandrine, and tell her what 1 say. 
 All this only serves to show how impossible it would be for 
 anything to alter our friendship in the least.' 
 
 ALBERT TO HIS FATHER. 
 
 * My dearest Father, — I have received your dear letter of 
 the 30th of October ; such a kind and delightful one. Oh ! my 
 dear father, how very much I love, and how touched Alexan- 
 drine is by all you say ! I am so afraid of your suffering from, 
 this winter in France. Do come as soon as possible, and warm 
 yourself in Italy, where the sun is never long without shining. 
 Poor Fernand will be frozen on the road. It is very good of 
 him to come to us. I feel it very much, but have almost a 
 scruple about his doing it. I shall keep him in exercise by 
 getting him to walk with Alexandrine, who, if left alone, would 
 very willingly stay in the house the whole winter. She thinks 
 moving about the room sufficient exercise, and she certainly 
 takes a great deal in that way. I wish you could see her busy 
 about her household affairs ; with her provisions of rice, candles, 
 coffee, sugar, &c., and giving out these things every day. We 
 have a kitchen-maid, whom she directs, and all goes on with 
 order, regularity, and economy. Is not that creditable for a 
 person who was considered capable of everything except the 
 management of a house ? Are you afraid that the poetry of life 
 may suffer ? Well, perhaps a little at the moments of actual 
 over-looking and work, but in the salon you will find her again 
 the same charming, refined, captivating Alexandrine of other 
 days. In short, my dear father, God seems to have created my 
 home on purpose to make me happy, for a mere housewife would 
 have destroyed me, and I should also have been bored with a 
 fine lady who would have been good for nothing in one's home. 
 
 ' We have already made a number of acquaintances here. 
 As nobody expects me to return visits, I am much pleased with 
 
188 A SISTER'S STOBt. 
 
 their civilities. Good-bye, my dear father. Alex and I love 
 you more than we can express.' 
 
 At the end of one of my letters at this time, Eugenie wrote to 
 Alexandrine as follows : — 
 
 ' When I pray to become good, I see you far, far in advance 
 of me on the long road of perfection. I admire your character 
 so much; it has so much force, so much sweetness, courage, 
 tenderness, and fidelity. You do not give way to discourage- 
 ment ; you rise so quickly again. Oh ! God has been very good 
 to our Albert, and He will complete his happiness. I have no 
 fear about the one great thought. God will lead you. You are 
 His own gentle sheep, which He calls without frightening. He 
 will grant us a peaceful consent, and will bring it all about 
 without wounding your mother's heart. My Alex, I shall pray 
 so ardently for you ! ' 
 
 ALBERT TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Venice, November 28tli. 
 
 * Dear Pauline, — Alex has received your letter, which, on 
 account of the postage not being paid, did not reach here for so 
 long. You are great darlings, both you and Eugenie, and all 
 the pretty things you say to Alex make me love you ten 
 times more than ever, if that were possible. She deserves 
 all your love, for there are not many women like her. One 
 ought to be, as I am, the object of her solicitude, to understand 
 the sweetness and tenderness of her incessant self-devotion. 
 God bless and reward her ! 
 
 ' You give us an immense wish to read Mental's speech, and 
 I am certain beforehand that I shall like it, for whether it is 
 enthusiastic or not, it comes at any rate from the heart of my 
 dear friend, and nothing but what is good can flow from such a 
 
 source. You say that thinks it a singular speech. What 
 
 does he mean by that ? It is a mean term which expresses 
 nothing, praise or blame. Others, you tell me, are of opinion 
 that religion and politics should be kept apart. Those good 
 people do not perceive that, in these days, everything turns on 
 religious questions, and that religion, which they affect to speak 
 of in a patronising or contemptuous manner, is in fact the tone 
 of everything and even of those politics which they would fain 
 separate from it, poor freethinkers that they are ! ' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO M. DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 ' Venice, December 3rd, 1835. 
 
 * Do you recognise this paper ? You bought it for me yourself 
 at Leghorn ! How comes it that I have delayed, not for a week, 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 18> 
 
 but for a single day, answering your letter, which has given me 
 so much pleasure ? I was afraid of what you might say in reply 
 to mine, and now you write more kindly to me than ever. I am 
 so grateful, and you have made me so happy ! Dear friend, 
 when I spoke of your sensitiveness, it was not from our expe- 
 rience of it ; on the contrary, we always think and say that few 
 friends, even the most intimate ones, would be so unceremonious 
 and" so like a brother in every way, as you are with us ; but it is 
 your austerity of character in other cases which makes us a little 
 afraid for ourselves. 
 
 ' You would pity and laugh at me at the same time, my dear 
 Montal, if you knew how I am given up body and soul to house- 
 hold cares. There is not a trace left of " the poetical Alexan- 
 drine." The present one is surrounded with stores of oil, 
 potatoes, rice, candles, &c., and is perfectly well acquainted, as I 
 beg you to believe, with the prices of everything, eggs included. 
 You would be charmed with our lodging. It is ten times as 
 comfortable as the house at Pisa, in the best situation, and with 
 the best view in Venice. I am quite engrossed by domestic 
 duties, seeing that I have a kitchen-maid seventy -four years old, 
 and that our poor Julian has been ill for the last four weeks. 
 Oh ! what absurd things I write to you. My pen, as usual, 
 draws me on to chatter away most unwarrantably. The immense 
 time I waste with my kitchen-maid has proved to me that our 
 Antonini (at Pisa), in spite of the apparent moderation of 
 his prices, used to take me in a little. But if our purse suffered, 
 poetry fared better. We are living in the same house as Mr. 
 Rawdon Brown, an Englishman, who lends us books, amongst 
 others the Koran, which interests us very much, and Byron, and 
 numbers of others about Venice. But he hates Moore, and will 
 not admit that he has written a single good line of poetry. 
 
 ' Dear friend, my mother writes that she hopes to receive the 
 Sacrament with me next year, and entreats me to remain always 
 firm in our faith. Oh, when shall I be calm and at peace? 
 I have had all through life less of that blessing than of any 
 other. 
 
 * Venice continues, thank God, to agree with Albert, though 
 the weather has been too cold and damp for him to go out. Are 
 you yourself quite well ? Please answer this question. Albert 
 thinks the first sheet of my letter savours dreadfully of the 
 kitchen. It is quite true. I am ashamed of it, and beg your 
 pardon ; but the fact is that our poor little old woman has 
 so little knowledge of cooking that it is I who teach her, and this 
 is such a new talent, that I cannot help boasting of it. And then 
 I was encouraged by your kind request for household details. 
 
190 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 * There is a sentence in your letter to Albert which made 
 ns laugh the whole of the day. Who would ever fancy that you 
 wrote such things to us from a convent ? Dear friend, with all 
 your gravity you manage to be very amusing. You will never 
 have so affectionate a friend as Albert. Even I see some defects 
 in you, but in his eyes you are perfection, and he would take any 
 treatment from you without a complaint. Farewell. May God 
 bless and make you happy. Your sister (I may say that ; you 
 do not object to it ?) Pray for me, and write to me.' 
 
 ALBERT IN THE SAME LETTER. 
 
 * Dear Friend, — I am not in the mood for writing to-day, and 
 as Alex has answered at length your kind letter of the 10 th 
 of November, I shall put off doing so till another day. I want 
 to say only that as time goes on, I find more and more comfort 
 in your friendship, and that I thank God with all my heart 
 for our intimacy. It is inexpressibly sweet to me that my wife 
 is included in it. Be always her friend.* Affections of this sort 
 only increase as time goes on. Your letters are looked forward 
 to and welcomed as if they were a brother's. Write to us often, 
 but to her rather than me. You can do her so much good. 
 There is a subject which cannot be touched upon except by a 
 friend, and a friend whose heart and mind are as well known to 
 us as yours, and who is more likely than others to succeed in 
 broaching it. Such subjects of conversation will be moreover 
 very useful to me, for I am in a sad state of tepidity. What 
 pains me most is the fear that this apathy which has taken hold 
 of me must arise from self-indulgence and neglect. This invalid 
 existence and minute precautions take all energy out of me. 
 I never had much, but now there is none. If my body could 
 recover strength and elasticity, perhaps my tone would get 
 stronger. 
 
 ' You can therefore understand how httle I am likely to in- 
 fluence the mind of my angel wife beneficially. Far from being 
 her guide in anything, I owe it to her that I am not utterly 
 prostrate.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE AND EUGENIE. 
 
 ' Venice, December Sth. 
 ' It is foolish of me, dear little sisters, to sit down at past 
 twelve o'clock at night to write to you ; but I have a strange 
 
 * Alex justly remarks on the margin : — ' This expression " her friend," in- 
 stead of " our friend," in this his last letter to Montalembert, does it not read 
 like a farewell ?' 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 191 
 
 passion for writing at night, and tlie post goes out at two in the 
 day-time. My household duties, which increase every day, the 
 journeys backwards and forwards, the time spent in Albert's 
 room, all this (and not my poor toilet, as I dare say you think) 
 fill up a good part of the morning. Alas ! I am much less well 
 got up than I used to be. I have given up not only many of the 
 things which you considered exaggerated, but some which yon 
 thought essential. I am becoming matter-of-fact, common-place, 
 unrefined, a regular housewife, a cook, anything you please to 
 imagine, and it is terrible to think how it suits me ! Not that I 
 am pleased with myself. The way in which I nurse Albert, 
 which you praise me for, has no merit in it whatever. If you 
 ask Putbus, he will tell you, as he has told me, that I have a 
 natural taste for all the little details of a sick-room ; that I shall 
 miss this sort of thing when Albert gets well; that there is 
 nothing which amuses me more than to measure, arrange, con- 
 trive, &c. What have you to answer to that, and when I know 
 it myself to be the truth ? No, I have no merit, but perhaps I 
 am blessed with a happy disposition, for when I have it to do, 
 I like attending to household matters, and when it is otherwise, I 
 like just as much having nothing whatever to do with them. 
 I like travelling, and I like staying in the same place. I am 
 glad both of excitement and repose. I like to be idle and to be 
 busy, to nurse the sick, finding all sorts of little pleasures in the 
 occupation, and when my sick people get well, I think it is 
 pleasanter still. My dear friends, how foolish you are to apolo- 
 gise for talking of yourselves, for here am I writing a whole 
 letter about myself, for which I suppose I ought to beg your 
 pardon. Oh ! my dear sisters, what a blessing it is for you to 
 have no worries about religion. When shall I see my way out 
 of my present state ? My poor mother writes me such touching 
 letters. Oh ! may God never forsake me, and make Albert well 
 again ! I cannot break my mother's heart. She has been the 
 happiness of my life ; she has allowed me to marry a Catholic ; 
 and I am all that she has. 
 
 ' If I could act truly, I would examine, study — and try to 
 become a Catholic. The Pope is my difiiculty. I think I am 
 convinced, quasi all the rest.'' 
 
 [Alexandrine wrote afterwards on the margin : — ' God has 
 been very patient with me.'] 
 
 ' Thanks, my dear little Eugenie, for your comforting words 
 on this subject. Farewell. May we soon meet again. If you 
 knew how I love you ! ' 
 
192 A 8I8TEB'8 STOBT. 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE AND EUGENIE. 
 
 ' The same day. 
 ' Dear Sisters, — I wish yon could see us with Fernand. We 
 lead such a pleasant kind of dawdling life — doing nothing at all ; 
 not that that is the beauty of it, but we are so happy, so snug. 
 We chat so comfortably together. It is charming, and dear 
 Fernand is in such spirits. He does not seem at all sorry to be 
 shut up with us here.' 
 
 ALBERT TO HIS MOTHER. 
 
 ' Venice, December 23rd. 
 * My poor dear beloved Mother, — How I do long to clasp you 
 to my breast ! The spring is still so far off. Seeing dear Fer- 
 nand, increases if possible my smania to be with you. His 
 arrival has been a great joy to us. He was fresh from home — 
 coming straight to us from you all. It seemed as if seeing him 
 we saw you all again. And then, yoa know, dearest mother, I 
 have always had a peculiar fondness for Fernand, the brother of 
 my childhood, the companion of its sorrows and joys. We have 
 gro^\Ti up together, and there is a great deal in that. He is in 
 very good looks, and I feel quite proud every time I introduce 
 him to a new acquaintance. You know how fond Alex is of him. 
 He was the great protector of our love affairs, and we can never 
 be too grateful to him. In those sort of things adverse acts and 
 friendly ones remain deeply engraved in the mind, but especially 
 the latter. I therefore hope we shall spend a pleasant winter, 
 full of affection and comfort in each other ; and in the spring I 
 shall at last see every one of you again. I am charmed with 
 what he tells me of Boury. We never tire of hearing him talk of 
 it, and describe the place and the country about it. What a 
 charming summer we shall spend with you ! I do so enjoy the 
 life of a chateau, and so does Alex. We make all kinds of plans 
 about the furnishing of our rooms. As we have now a home, 
 and a most comfortable one, and that our own particular one 
 consists of two rooms, we think it will be easy to make it pretty, 
 and we intend to make it so. Our present idea is to bring back 
 with us from Italy enough pieces of old silk, if our means allow, 
 for hanging the whole walls. What do you say to this ? If it 
 was only for the curtains, would not it set us off? Alexandrine 
 and Fernand are hurrying me to send the letters to the post. I 
 have written nothing but nonsense, but this is not to count for a 
 regular letter. Let us hear from you by each courier. Good-bye, 
 beloved mother. Alex loves you hke your own children. 
 
 ' Your Albert.' 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 193 
 
 ALBERT TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Venice, December 19th, 1835. 
 
 * My Dearest, — You must see Constantinople ! It is more 
 beautiful than anything you have yet beheld. My love for the 
 East is as strong as ever, and we have serious thoughts of spend- 
 ing some part of next winter in the Holy Land. Jerusalem is 
 my dream. I cannot imagine anything equal to the interest of 
 following our Lord Jesus Christ's footsteps, with the Gospels 
 as one's guide. Every Christian ought, I think, once in his life 
 to enliven his faith by resorting to its fountain-head. I feel as 
 if mine, tepid as it is, would be for ever kindled into fervour. For 
 where are there interests comparable to those bound up with 
 religion ? How dry and cold all others seem by the side of that 
 one which is unchangeable, inexhaustible and Divine ! There is 
 to me something very peculiar about Constantinople. It strikes 
 one as a place of passage, an encampment where all is pretty and 
 brilliant; but nothing gives the idea of a people firmly established, 
 with a future to look to, and a work of self- improvement to fulfil 
 and hand down to posterity. It looks as if each individual had 
 built for himself a tent for the momentary enjoyment of that 
 beautiful sight. Does this arise from a natural apathy, or are 
 they under the influence of an inevitable fatality which hides the 
 Russian fleet from them, ready to rush in through the narrow gate- 
 ways of the Black Sea ? It was thus that Mahomet the Second 
 was attacking the walls of Coustantinople, whilst priests and learned 
 men were absorbed in vain theological controversies. When a 
 people reaches the last stage of dissolution. Providence perhaps 
 permits this sort of apathy to mitigate the sufferings of the final 
 moments. ... I begin this letter again at the end of two days. 
 Our dear Count Putbus is aiTived, and has brought Alex and me 
 all sorts of pretty things ; but not, as we had hoped, letters from 
 you. It is one of those beautiful Italian days, which make one 
 forget all the previous bad weather. Venice is in all its glory. 
 The air so pure — the palaces, the sea, the gondolas, and every- 
 thing gay as for a festival. Dear Pauline, do you not delight in 
 Venice ? After Rome,, it is the thing I like best in Italy, and it 
 has the advantage over Rome of not being inundated by crowds 
 of foreigners. 
 
 ' My wife is becoming every day more captivating. She is the 
 only woman who could have made me happy. Everything is 
 charming about Alex ; her simplicity, her tenderness, which you 
 know so well ; her unutterable sweetness. 'No happiness on 
 earth can equal mine. With my dislike of the world, it would 
 
 
 
194 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 have driven me wild to have had a wife who did not like her 
 home better than anything else. Oh, my dearest, how real life 
 becomes when everything is concentrated in the same circle of 
 interests, affections, tastes, and sympathies ! There is something 
 so genuine in all Alex's feelings — not a grain of affectation about 
 her. I do not know if my sufferings increase her attachment; 
 all I am sure of is that nothing can exceed the sweetness of our 
 mutual love. It really seems as if this letter could never get 
 itself done. This is the third time I have left it unfinished. I 
 continue what I was writing on the last page ; and say that for 
 my part I cannot understand marriages without affection, or con- 
 ceive that married happiness can exist without that precious 
 attachment which guarantees a real union of heart and mind. I 
 own I admire those who marry from prudential reasons, without 
 inclination. It would require less courage, in my opinion, to 
 stand by a mine about to explode. I should never have been 
 able to undertake it ; and had I not met my Alex amidst those 
 enchanting sceues at Rome, and the secluded, almost cloistered, 
 life she was leading there, I should, perhaps, never have fallen in 
 love, and then certainly never married. The word marriage alone 
 is to my mind an alarming one. 
 
 * Good-bye, my dear sister ; my best love to my dearest father, 
 my beloved mother, Eugenie (God bless her !) Olgette, Chariot, 
 Emmy, and her dear little Alfred.' 
 
 ALBERT TO THE PRINCESS LAPOUKHTN. 
 
 * Venice, January 1st, 1836. 
 ' My dear Mother, — Let me begin this year by speaking to 
 you of Alex, and of all the happiness which I owe to you. Time, 
 as it goes on, only increases its amount and intensity. How can 
 I ever thank you enough for having entrusted to me the happi- 
 ness of your daughter ! You, who knew what an angel she is ! 
 God grant that I may never disappoint you in that respect. But 
 if I do make her happy, it is not owing to anything in myself, 
 but to her own sweet disposition. Besides being the only woman 
 who could make me happy, she is the only woman, I believe, 
 who could be happy with me. She has serenity of temper, in- 
 dispensable to my peace. A capricious and uncertain person 
 would have driven me wild. Her greatest charm of all, perhaps, 
 is her perfect simplicity, and entire freedom from affectation. 
 If you could only see her busying herself with household matters,* 
 and all their wearisome details, with such gaiety, and such 
 perseverance ! "Where did the elegante Mademoiselle d'Alopeus 
 acquire this patent ? How has she learnt to be a perfect house- 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 195 
 
 keeper in her kitchen, and at the same time to retain all the cap- 
 tivation and charms which makes everybody fall in love with 
 her ? And these are the smallest of her merits. Everything 
 about her is admirable. Perhaps the whole of her qualities 
 would have been less conspicuous in another kind of marriage, 
 but in such a tie as the one that binds us, the daily monotony of 
 life increases rather than lessens its strength. I have the con- 
 sciousness that ours is an everlasting happiness, and have always 
 dreaded the disenchanting effect of habits, having been so often 
 carried away by enthusiasm, and then saddened by disappoint- 
 ment. And, shall I confess it ? at the very moment of my 
 marriage, I had for a few days a sort of uneasy feeling which 
 might have made you anxious for your daughter's happiness. I 
 felt a kind of longing to escape. I thank God I did not, but the 
 longer I live the better I can understand in others the vague 
 dread I then felt, and I am more convinced that it requires cou- 
 rage to marry in the way most people do. For my own part, when 
 1 see how perfect Alexandrine is, it makes me shudder to think 
 how easily I might have missed having her for my wife ; and I 
 feel to love you — you to whom I owe this blessing, more than ever. 
 And that good Count Putbus too, to whom I am also so indebted. 
 What a charming character that man has, so modest and unaf- 
 fected, and so simple ! But do you know that I never venture to 
 speak to him of my attachment and my gratitude, from a feeling 
 that it would put him out, besides not liking to make speeches, 
 so I say nothing. But I do hope he knows how I like him, 
 that is, if he has ever given it a thought. This dear friend arrived 
 here five days ago, and will spend the rest of the winter with us, 
 and so will our good Fernand, who has given up Paris and its 
 delights to give us his company here, and I assure you that our 
 life is really quite a merry one. I only wish you were here too, 
 my dear mother. We should enjoy it all then twice as much. 
 But you will come, shall you not, to Paris next summer ? It will 
 be so pleasant to meet you there. Alex looked into her accounts 
 yesterday with Putbus, and they were delighted to find her so 
 w^ell off. This is fortunate for our journey to Paris, where I am 
 bent on her being very well dressed. She is always charming, if 
 ever so simply dressed. She inherits this from you, dear mother. 
 There is a special perfume of refinement, if I may so speak, which 
 I have never known in anybody but you and your daughter. It 
 is that which once struck me at Home ; that and a kind of mys- 
 terious charm belonging to yourselves, your rooms, and everything 
 about you. How I must have bored you with my long disquisi- 
 tions, but I will stop now. High time I should, you will say, but 
 I wished so much to talk to you a little, and more even than I 
 
196 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 have done. I converse more easily by letter than viva voce, for I 
 am absurdly shy, and particularly so with you, dear mother, who 
 have always been so good and kind to me. But this does not pre- 
 vent me from loving you beyond measure, and I entreat you to 
 continue your kindness to me. 
 
 ' Your devoted and respectfal son, 
 
 *A. F.' 
 
 This letter, dated the first day of the year, the close of which 
 he was not to see, was the last he ever wrote to his mother-in- 
 law. Would it not seem as if both it and the preceding one were 
 a sort of farewell to his vanishing happiness, an acknowledgment 
 of affectionate gratitude for all he had been permitted to enjoy, 
 and was now about to leave ? 
 
 The 17th of January, a date which was afterwards a very sad 
 one for us all,* was also a painfully memorable one to Albert and 
 Alexandrine. On that day, in 1836, they took a walk together 
 on the Lido, and for the last time in this world tasted one of 
 those happy hours — never to return again — which up till now had 
 flashed across their sweet though chequered life, like gleams from 
 a better world. 
 
 Albert had seemed better than usual, and Alexandrine thus 
 writes : — 
 
 ' When we landed on the Lido, I said that my poor Albert was 
 like a bird escaped from a cage, and I was also in the highest 
 spirits at finding ourselves once more together in the open air. 
 The weather was very beautiful, and the island gay and bright, 
 in spite of being covered with tombstones. Ah ! that was my 
 last walk on earth gilded with earthly joy. Since then there 
 have been others, bright with golden and rosy hues, but their 
 brightness came from another world. Albert and I came back 
 in a gondola by ourselves. He was afraid that Putbus would 
 not Kke to be alone with Fernand in the other, but I could not 
 trouble myself about that, for a whole hour seemed to me too 
 long a time to be away from him. We had that delicious"^ hour 
 together, and that lovely sea, turning over the pages of a book 
 Putbus had lent us, and applying to our own love the beautiful pas- 
 sages we found in it, amongst others this sentence, which delighted 
 us : " Would there not be sufiering in loving only for a life-time? 
 Have you not felt the desire of an eternal affection?" Ah ! — 
 one of us was soon to become acquainted with that kind of 
 love ! The only thing which disturbed the perfect enjoyment of 
 that hour was the anxiety I felt because Albert had wetted his 
 
 * M. de la Ferronnays died on the 17th of January, 1842. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY, 197 
 
 feet on the sands of the Lido. I should have liked to dry them 
 with my hands.' 
 
 Alexandrine's anxiety proved not to be without foundation. 
 On the following day Albert was worse, and by degrees all the 
 symptoms of his fatal malady returned and increased. The end 
 of January and all February passed without any improvement, 
 but at the same time without any attack which could open 
 Alexandrine's eyes to the extent of the impending danger. During 
 the latter melancholy month, she still cherished delusive hopes. 
 I do not like to interrupt the course of this painful narrative, but 
 the following passages of the letters they both wrote, and some 
 extracts from Alexandrine's writings, are too indicative of her 
 state of mind during the days which preceded the great trial of 
 her life, to be omitted. 
 
 Albert's last letter to his father. 
 
 ' Venice, January 31st, 1836. 
 * I have narrowly escaped an attack of inflammation. Had it 
 not been warded off, it might have fallen on the lungs, or been a 
 brain fever. Thank Grod, it was taken in time, and all is right 
 for the present. Fiat voluntas Dei ! But it is not cheering at 
 twenty-four years of age, and when, but for health, life would 
 be unspeakably happy. Forgive my grumbling, but illness 
 makes me feel so old, I lose patience and courage, and should 
 give way entirely if it were not for my sweet angel Alex, who 
 keeps up my spirits and makes me feel ashamed of my cowardice. 
 Love her very, very dearly, There is no one hke her in the 
 world.' 
 
 A few days afterwards, Alexandrine wrote these words in her 
 locked book : — 
 
 ' My God, Thon hast granted me some keen enjoyment during 
 
 my life, but Thou hast denied me repose I hope that I do 
 
 not murmur at this. Thy will be done. Oh ! yes, I Jiope that I 
 am convinced that all I have done is well done. But, Almighty 
 Father (for Thou hast permitted us to ask), I ask in the name 
 of Thy Son Jesus Christ, to whom Thou hast promised to grant 
 all things, I ask Thee that I may live 'and die and rise again 
 with my cherished Albert. I love him, ! my God, I love him 
 much in Thee. I love him much because he loves Thee. Oh ! 
 keep us ever together in thy love ; never separate us ! Pray for 
 me, ye saints, and love me, dear Jesus ; let my voice reach Thee 
 as that of the poor woman reached Thee, as of the centurion, 
 and so many others ! Like one of them I cry, " Lord, I believe ; 
 
198 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 help Thou mine unbelief." Deign Thyself to enlighten me; 
 make Thyself Thy truth to shine in my heart. But let me, 
 sweet Jesus — Thou who hadst pity on Thy mother — let me deal 
 tenderly with the heart of mine. 
 
 ' My soul was very sad and troubled yesterday. The sky was 
 beautiful, the sea so fair and calm. Such sights have often of 
 themselves led me to believe in an eternal happiness, extended to 
 each and every one. Well, yesterday, I felt nothing but the 
 sorrow and the danger which grow up side by side with all that 
 is sweet and joyful. I thought that the glorious sun often 
 causes many deaths and great sufferings ; and the sea, so calm, 
 so unbroken, and so deeply blue, — are not multitudes drowned in 
 it for all its beauty ? Danger and sufl'ering are all around us. 
 Our life, the life of all those we love, hangs on a thread, and 
 even that thread is not broken without frightful sufferings. 
 
 ' Oh, is not one sometimes tempted to ponder upon the truth 
 that God, immense, incomprehensible, and almighty, has cer- 
 tainly the right to make His creatures for different uses ; some 
 for misery, others for happiness ; and what can we do in the 
 matter ? As to murmuring — it would be absurd, for compared 
 with Grod we are less than the clay which the potter fashions 
 into different vessels, or the wax which the artist moulds at will. 
 I am less before Grod than the grain of dust which w^hirls before 
 me. May I not then be as indifferent to Him? ... I had 
 {•ome such thoughts yesterday as I sat in the window looking at 
 the lovely view, and then, wafted to me perhaps by one of the 
 Angels who care for me, there came into my mind those words, 
 so full of comfort, " The very hairs of your head are numbered.'' 
 Thus, then, our troubles have all a purpose. Oh, I know it is 
 good for me to be tried. It makes me think of God; it makes 
 me, I hope, somewhat better. And then another Heavenly word 
 came into my mind : " Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall 
 he comforted.'* ' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 'February 25tli. 
 ' My beloved Pauline, — Does it not seem very strange to you 
 all that I have been so many weeks without vn'iting ? It would 
 have been a torture to^me, and you can look upon it as a good 
 sign that to-day I feel able to write. Yesterday Albert got up 
 for the first time. But I am still terribly afraid that this violent 
 attack must have done his poor chest a great harm. Oh ! 
 Pauline, how the roses that bloomed in my future are turned 
 into thorns ; my flowers are withered or drooping. Will the dew 
 of a brighter day never revive them again ? I was surprised at 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 199 
 
 sometliing Eugenie wrote, but it was a listless sort of surprise, 
 and perhaps in my present state of mind I was not sorry to liear 
 her say, " Why should I wish to find anything sweeter than death /" 
 Oh ! happy, happy are those who can love that terrible thing 
 death, and whose faith is so strong that it makes them look upon 
 it as the greatest of blessings ! All the joys of earth could not 
 give Eugenie as much happiness as these foretastes of Heaven.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 * March 1st. 
 
 'Dearest Pauline, — He is better, still better, I venture to 
 trust, than when I wrote to you a few days ago. I am very 
 grateful, but still very anxious. These poor human hearts of 
 ours ! I hope I have never dared to think that God need not 
 have created sufferings; but I own that I have often asked 
 myself how it could do good to the soul to be so tortured ; and 
 why God, with all His power and love, can look on at such 
 agonies and allow them to exist. And yet, even as I write the 
 words, I feel that, if such questions did cross my mind, they 
 were most absurd. For I myself find that it is good for my soul 
 thus to suffer, that it weans it from the earth which it loves so 
 much, and makes it pray with greater fervour to that merciful 
 God whom in the midst of happiness I forget. 
 
 ' Oh, we are base and ungratefal beings, to be so much more 
 occupied with G-od when we feel our great need of Him than when 
 He showers upon us blessings ! I rely on your prayers, my dear 
 sisters. I feel for the anguish which you and your parents are 
 enduring, while we, comparatively speaking, are more easy. 
 But, dearest, I too want pity. I want comfort ; and to be folded 
 in the arms of some one I love, and weep and sob there without 
 restraint. My too full heart needs the relief of tears to calm 
 the agitation which I am perpetually concealing. Fernand and 
 Putbus are both most kind, but they are not enough for me now. 
 I want to feel my mother's arms about my neck, and yours, 
 beloved sisters. I am sitting writing to you, lonely and sad, in 
 my Albert's room. He is asleep. I should like to have some- 
 body watching with me. You will understand this. Femand 
 is writing in the drawing-room, a good way off. It would be a 
 comfort to me to have him here. But he is not quite as noise- 
 less as I am, and for our dear patient it is better that everything 
 should be perfectly quiet. Oh, I hate being alone ! During 
 this terrible month, when Fernand and I have been together 
 nursing our beloved one, we sometimes have laughed. It was, 
 to be sure, only a transient gleam of merriment, but my poor 
 weak soul requires sympathy and companionship. Well, it does 
 
200 A SISTER'S ST0R7. 
 
 not signify whether I suffer more or less, so that he is better ; 
 and. he is better. I trust it is God who allows me to think so.' 
 
 FROM ALEXANDRINE S JOURNAL AND NOTES. 
 
 ' On the 3rd or 4th of March, Albert saw that I was in tears. 
 He called me and said softly a few words. I could only catch 
 this sentence : " Well, dear love, and suppose it pleased God to 
 call me to Himself ^'' Another time I forgot what I wanted to 
 say, but I made a slip of the tongue, and said by mistake, " I 
 shall feed on the good God," and stopped and smiled at my own 
 mistake ; but he said with a grave sweetness, and an expression 
 in his countenance which I shall never forget, " And when will 
 jou feed on the good God ?" I remained speechless.' 
 
 ' March 5th. — Oh, my God ! that sharp pain, that stitch in 
 his side, has returned. It is three o'clock. He is gone to bed 
 again. What a miserable thing is life, and men dress it np in 
 luxury and pleasure ! Such were the words (words of despon- 
 dency) which ended one phase of my life, for from that time for- 
 ward a new existence began for me. Out of the very midst of 
 the shadows of death, light was about to dawn ! ' 
 
 ' I had not courage to resume my journal till the 28th of March, 
 but this was what happened. On the 5th, Albert's cruel pains 
 in the chest terribly increased. What would have become of me 
 if he had died then, ignorant and undisciplined as I was then, 
 I tremble to think, and it might so easily have happened ! ' 
 
 ' March the 6th. — Albert slept during the night, but on waking, 
 he began to cough, and towards morning his pains had passed 
 from the shoulder to the centre of the chest, and he sometimes 
 felt as if he should be choked to death. At half-past five I went 
 to wake Femand, who ran to fetch Brera ' (the physician) . 
 
 * I sat anxiously watching by Albert's side, waiting for Fer- 
 nand's return. He came back with his lips white, and scarcely 
 able to speak. He said : " We must get a confessor." — " Have 
 we come to that ? Have we, indeed, come to that ?" I cried to 
 myself. Then I added, almost instantaneously, " Now I am A 
 Catholic!" When these words had been uttered, courage at 
 least, if not joy, came back to my soul. I asked with a sort of 
 impatience what this dreadful malady was called : " Pulmonary 
 consumption,''^ replied Fernand at last. Then I lost all hope. 
 This passed in another room, close to Albert's, and we had to go 
 back to his. Fernand opened the shutters, and I looked out on 
 the morning. I saw the palaces gilded by the sun just as usual, 
 but I no longer seemed to take note of what I saw. The light 
 fell on Albert's face, and it looked perfectly white. I fell into a 
 
A SISTER'S ST0R7. 201 
 
 kind of stupor, but controlled myself, for I had now been for 
 many days practising how to conceal my fears. My dear Albert, 
 looking on this new day, whose importance he was unconscious 
 of, began to say sadly and sweetly, " Oh, I wish they were all 
 here ! I am afraid I shall never see them again ! France — if I 
 could hut reach France, I would how my head! " 
 
 ' Some nuns of the Visitation, to whom he had a letter of in- 
 troduction, which Fernand had delivered, sent him a relic of St. 
 Francis of Sales, by Padre Catullo, their confessor. When Albert 
 saw the good Father, he was very glad ; he asked him at once 
 to hear his confession. He then turned to me with a sweet ex- 
 pression, and bade me leave the room. I gave the good Father 
 a host of injunctions to be careful before I left, and I remained 
 outside near the door, full of anxiety, and trying to hear what 
 passed, without thinking the least harm, 
 
 ' Padre Catullo remained a long time with us. He told me 
 with great earnestness that Albert was " a most Christian man." 
 He did both him and myself the greatest possible good ; and not- 
 withstanding the misery of that day, there was a germ of joy in 
 the irredeemable resolution I had taken, which I felt by anticipa- 
 tion to be good. 
 
 ' Soon after Fernand had uttered those terrible words, I opened 
 the little book of texts I have already mentioned, with a super- 
 stitious feeling, and I found these words for the 6th of March : 
 " He hath not despised or contemned the affliction of the afflicted.''^ 
 
 ' Fernand went off on horseback in the afternoon to fetch his 
 parents and Eugenie. 
 
 ' After his departure, which agitated me, I felt a surprising 
 peace. To be sure, Albert began then to amend a little. Since 
 that day I left off reading novels, and did not even finish the one 
 we had before. To occupy my thoughts I read the Bible, or 
 some spiritual book. Albert made me dine in his room, and 
 what a dinner it was ! The evening was, however, calmer than 
 I could have ventured to hope. I said to Albert that Brera's 
 medicine was doing him good. With a beautiful smile he kissed 
 the relic of St. Francis, and replied, " No, it is this which has 
 done me good." ' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 * Venice, March 17th, 1836. 
 
 * He lives, Pauline ! Mother, sisters, all of you, he lives, and 
 
 there is fresh hope ; much more hope, perhaps, if I can venture 
 
 to believe it, but I have been so often disappointed. Fernand 
 
 will have arrived, I think, before you receive this letter, and I 
 
202 A SISTER'S 8T0R7 
 
 am afraid you will be much alarmed. And then, if anything has 
 delayed him on the road, what terror this letter will cause you ! 
 My own Eugenie, I wonder if you will have set out before you get 
 it. Oh ! if only you were all here ! My heart feels so sore, yet 
 it is wonderful how God supports one when no human help is at 
 hand ; and last night, after that dreadful day, I felt an extraordi- 
 nary peace. Our dear, kind Putbus did me good also, for it is 
 extraordinary what a need I have of some one to share my cruel 
 anxiety. We spent the evening in Albert's room, who was only 
 too much inclined to be sociable and to talk. I am sure you 
 could not but hope if you saw him so cheerful. But, alas ! in 
 his disease, this does not show anything. I am obliged to repeat 
 this to myself, that I may not be too hopeful, which has always 
 been my disposition ; still, I must add, that yesterday evening, 
 and again this morning, the doctor said it was a miracle to see 
 him as well as he is. Oh, if this were indeed from God's will ! 
 Fernand will tell you about the relic of St. Francis of Sales, 
 which the nuns of the Visitation sent him. He holds it con- 
 stantly in his hand, and I believe I have as much faith in it as 
 he has. Ah ! what will happen to us ? Oh, Eugenie, my dear 
 father and mother, come quickly to us, and I need not say, 
 "pray for us." ' 
 
 The next letter was also written during that time of painful 
 suspense. Tears had blotted it so as to make it almost illegible. 
 Many years and other saddest days have passed away since I 
 received it, but nothing can ever efface the remembrance of the 
 place, or the hour when it came, or the feelings with which it 
 was read. 
 
 ALEXANDEINE TO PAULINE. 
 * Venice, March 9th, 1836, twelve o'clock at night. 
 
 * He is alive, dearest Pauline, but I can hope no more. It is 
 very hard quite to lose it, and it is only to-night that I give it 
 up, though I have been told innumerable times that he may die 
 
 from one moment to another It is so hard, even when 
 
 one has gone through it once, really to beheve that our beloved 
 ones can die. I am here alone in his room, he sleeping and I 
 watching him, — ^knowing that he is dying, but without father, 
 mother, sisters, or brothers into whose arms I could for a while 
 give way to my dreadful anguish, and who all through my Hfe 
 have felt such intense need of sympathy. I must wT^ite to relieve 
 this intolerable burthen. 
 
 ' This, then, is the end of our love. Ten days of happiness 
 out of less than two years of married life, and this for us who 
 love one another as much as it is possible to iove. Ten days ! 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 203 
 
 for it was not longer that I was entirely free from anxiety about 
 his health. God in His mercy slowly, almost imperceptibly, 
 prepared me for my lot ; yet, in mercy, for I have always chosen 
 some long sorrow to any sudden shock. I am then calmly 
 looking my future iu the face. First, Lord ! grant me that 
 this blessed angel may not suifer again as he has done, and that 
 all the joys of Heaven may be his for ever. As to me, whose 
 life will, as I feel, be prolonged, I shall have no other happiness 
 on earth but the love of my God. May I only have courage to 
 give myself up entirely to this ! It ought to be the strongest of 
 all love, but I have always been so weak. I have always felt 
 such need of tenderness, that it frightens me to think that at my 
 age I must give up every help of this kind for ever. And yet my 
 only rest will be in knowing that nothing on earth can ever com- 
 fort me ; for I should detest myself if I could set my foot again 
 in any worldly scene, or take the least interest in worldly things. 
 But still I crave to see those I love. For one moment I thouglit 
 I might be a nun, but I felt again that I should not have courage 
 for it, and that the desire to see my mother, and all of you, and 
 my brothers, would disturb me ; and if I could, I should seek to 
 be calm and at peace with God. I must therefore lead a lonely 
 life, but with some one I love and who will love me as much as 
 my mother. Perhaps I may go to her. But in that case, or in 
 any case, I must profess Albert's faith ; I will not and cannot 
 
 believe anything he does not believe Do you remember, 
 
 Pauline, my telling you that nothing but a hirth or one of three 
 deatJis would make me a Catholic ? This was a foreboding which 
 it has been God's will soon to realize, and alas ! not in the one 
 only happy way in which it could be fulfilled. Then, who knows, 
 perhaps after some years, I might have the courage to return to 
 France, and to become a Sister of Charity ; to look upon suffer- 
 ing, sorrow, and death ; perhaps to save by careful nursing some 
 consumptive patient, and bless God that others were happier 
 than myself .... I should like that ! But, no, I am not good 
 enough — I shall never practise any great virtues. That I may 
 not commit too great sins, it would be well for me soon to die. 
 O ! God, grant that I may soon be with Albert, and my father ! 
 Does not the certainty of seeing those we love again prove that 
 we shall do so ? It is impossible to imagine anything greater, 
 more beautiful, or sweeter than what must really exist some- 
 where, in a better life than this earthly one, from which I do not 
 look for one single day of happiness again. God help my weak- 
 ness, and keep me from doubts or murmurs. May He give me a 
 taste for heavenly joys ! I hate this world and its deceitful hap- 
 piness, and yet my soul does not rise towards Heaven. I wish I 
 
204 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 had Eugenie's feeling about death, both for myself and every one 
 I love. But I could not bear to be alone at last, when I shall 
 have to close his eyes. I cannot reckon on my own courage. 
 Those beautiful — always so beautiful eyes, with their loving, 
 sweet, beaming expression ! The brightness of that glance I haw 
 not seen for a long time, but its sweetness and beauty still remain, 
 and sometimes wdth it a look of sorrow which breaks my heart. 
 And yet I must be cheerful before him, . . . Ah ! that reserve 
 between us kills me, and heartrending as it would be, I often 
 think I would rather speak to him of his death, and endeavour to 
 comfort ourselves by thoughts of faith, hope, and love. 
 
 ' The doctor was tolerably well satisfied to-day, but this does 
 not raise my hopes, and ten days must yet elapse before they can 
 all be here. 
 
 * God ! Thou God of love and mercy, if to such anguish as 
 this eternal happiness and re-union succeed, we shall bless Thee 
 for these suflPerings, the remembrance of which will but add to 
 the blessedness of everlasting joy ! 
 
 ' Pray for me more than ever, my dearest Pauline, for indeed I 
 pray very badly for myself. Do you know a very sad thought 
 mingles with my grief? I sometimes think I did Albert harm 
 by vexing and contradicting him ; for the least irritation increased 
 the agony of his chest. Perhaps I brought on this terrible crisis 
 — perhaps he would have recovered if I had been more what I 
 ought to have been. my God ! is there any happiness to be 
 found ? ' 
 
 ' Thursday, March 10th. — I send you this letter, dear Pauline, 
 just as it is. I have seen a new doctor this morning, who does 
 not think the danger immediate, though he does not hide from 
 me how serious it is. This was, alas ! no news to me. The day 
 after to-morrow, Albert will receive the Last Sacraments. He 
 said to me, " If they knew it at Boury how finely frightened 
 they would be ! " May God comfort you all, and make every- 
 body happy some day ! Since I have been so miserable, I want 
 more than ever to t hink that suffering will at last end for every- 
 body. ' Alex.' 
 
 alexandrine's journal. 
 
 * March 12th. — To-day Albert got up at six o'clock, partly 
 dressed, and then laid down. At eight o'clock his confessor 
 came, and at nine the Cure brought him the Viaticum. In the 
 afternoon we got a number of L' Universite CathoUque, which con- 
 tains Montalembert's Introduction to the Life of St. Elizabeth, and 
 to satisfy Albert's impatience, I read it aloud to him. We ad- 
 mired it very much, and even Putbus was struck with its beauty. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 205 
 
 That same day he called me to his bed-side. I knelt down as I 
 used so often to do by that beloved one. He spoke to me. I 
 cannot remember exactly the words he used about my marrying 
 again after his death ; and as I began to weep bitterly, and to assure 
 him I never should do so, he said, in a gentle, melancholy way, 
 " 0/i .^ you. are too young. . . . You will marry agam.''^ He 
 also added, ^^ If I die, be a Frenchwoman still. Bo not forsake my 
 people. Do not go back to your mother.'^ 
 
 'Since the moment when I said, ^^ Noiv I am a Catholic,'^ I 
 never for a single second had the idea that any other religion can 
 be the true one. On the 14th of March I wrote in my journal, 
 " A moment of inspiration,''^ and I marked the d^y in that way 
 because, as I was writing to my mother for the first time since 
 Albert's danger, I made up my mind to tell her the whole truth. 
 I knelt down, therefore, before I began my letter, and asked all 
 my Catholic ancestors in Heaven to help me. I felt delightfully 
 encouraged by a bright sunbeam which just then shone out across 
 the room, and was quite in keeping with the state of my mind. 
 As Albert lay in bed he had no idea of what was to make both 
 him and me so happy.' 
 
 This is the letter which Alexandrine wrote in that solemn mo- 
 ment to her mother ; she was not mistaken when she called it 
 ' a moment of inspiration^ : — 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO HER MOTHER. 
 
 ' Venice, March ISth. 
 
 * Thank God, he is alive ! Dearest mamma, I can now begin 
 to write to you again. What a wonderful feeling it is, and how 
 you would pity me if you were here ! . . . I cannot express 
 what I have gone through, or what I still suffer. It is extraordi- 
 nary how I can keep up, and in the midst of it be calm. Putbus 
 has no doubt written to you. I always begged him to do so, that 
 you need have no fears about my health. I am not at all ill. 
 But, oh ! through what anguish has the mind to pass ! For the 
 moment, Albert is better. The doctor says it is a miracle. I ven- 
 ture to hope that danger is less imminent, but it always more or 
 less exists. What becomes of me is still uncertain, but every- 
 thing seems to indicate that it will soon be determined by the 
 sorrow hanging over us. ... It is not for us to question 
 the ways of God, or to murmur at them. There is no real 
 happiness in this world, and I am convinced that nobody is really 
 happy.' 
 
 ' March 14th. 
 
 ' Every morning calls for gratitude when I can say, " He is 
 alive. God be praised ! " I have suffered so much. When 
 
206 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 Fernand left us the anguish was terrible, and afterwards too, 
 when it came to praying that he might just live long enough to 
 see his father again. Oh ! how hard it is to accustom one- 
 self to think that love, happiness, youth, and all hope for this 
 world are at an end ; that all one's dreams of earthly joy are 
 vanished for ever. In one of your last letters you say, " I have 
 now to go through life without you." You little thought that 
 Providence was about, perhaps, to bring us together again by a 
 terrible sorrow. But now, my own beloved mother, I must open 
 my whole heart to you. I will not conceal from you a single 
 thought, a single wish. 
 
 ' I have an irresistible desire to belong to the same Church as 
 my poor Albert, and I give you my word of honour that it is 
 only during these last dreadful days that I have felt this wish 
 take complete possession of my mind. But I must also add, 
 that up to this moment it is my love and respect for you which 
 has prevented my seeking instruction upon the Catholic faith, 
 dreading to find out that it was the true one, and of being then 
 obliged to embrace it. For when we find out something to be 
 more evidently true than what we have hitherto beheved, it is 
 certain that we are bound in duty to receive it. If people were 
 never to change their faith merely because they happen to be 
 born in a particular religion, neither Jews nor Pagans could ever 
 become Christians. 
 
 ' My love and respect for you are in no way diminished, but I 
 now feel myself irresistibly impelled towards a decisive step, 
 and also fully persuaded that you will forgive me, and even 
 feel that in my position you would think and act as I wish 
 to do. 
 
 ' You would 'never, dearest mother, I am sure, refuse to make 
 a dying husband — who may possibly linger a few months, but 
 whose days are numbered — exceedingly happy by receiving 
 Communion for the first and perhaps for the last time together ? 
 . . . You would never, I repeat, refuse him this, provided always 
 that conscience did not forbid it ; for on no account, not even to 
 gladden the dying hours of my husband, would I act unfaithfully 
 towards God, and it would be acting unfaithfully to embrace a 
 religion without being convinced of its truth, and for the sake 
 of human aflPection. You need not fear that, for I assure you T 
 shall only act from conviction ; but let me examine, learn, and 
 then resolve. 
 
 ' You know me well enough, my dearest mother, to be certain 
 that I could not think of becoming a Catholic if I were in con- 
 sequence obliged to believe that the souls of my Protestant 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 207 
 
 parents, brothers, and friends, can never be saved. But I have 
 taken great pains to read and convince myself that Catholics do 
 not hold this belief. They do not believe that those who are in 
 good faith in their creed will be condemned ; but they consider 
 their own to be the best religion of all,* and this I must confess 
 is what I have been, ever since my childhood, inclined to think 
 too. It is the oldest faith ; it seems to me the most likely to 
 have handed down the doctrines of the Apostles, and from the 
 Catholic Church we have received the Grospels themselves. I can 
 never admit that my change of religion could grieve my father, 
 for where he is all things must appear in a different light than 
 here on earth. He now sees more clearly than any living person, 
 be he Protestant or Catholic, and if in the light of that Heavenly 
 wisdom he perceives the Catholic Church to be the true Church, 
 will he not rejoice to see his daughter received into it on earth ? 
 Besides, dearest mamma, I am embracing no new faith. On the 
 contrary, it is the ancient creed, the creed of our ancestors, to 
 w^hich I return. My father's grandfather was a Catholic, and 
 your family, which is so old, must have had a far greater number 
 of Catholic than Protestant ancestors. These might, indeed, 
 more justly grieve in another world to behold their descendants 
 professing a new and different religion, and not their own ancient 
 faith ! 
 
 ' Ah ! my sweet mother ! permit me then to be instructed in 
 the Catholic religion ; and if your poor child returns to you a 
 widow, you will not mind, will you, if she comes to you a 
 Catholic ? You will not banish her from your heart ? She will 
 love you and cherish you more than ever. Her religion will 
 never be a source of annoyance to you. That little chapel which 
 Lapoukhyn so kindly arranged for Albert will be the sanctuary 
 of my grief, where I shall pray for my beloved one, and all those 
 who are dear to me. O ! dearest mother, if the Catholic religion 
 had but that one advantage over ours, of prayers for the dead, I 
 should choose it, and in so many other ways it is so full of con- 
 solation. Henceforth I will devote my life to you. If you wish 
 it, we will live and die together at Korsen, for I shall need quiet 
 and repose.' 
 
 While this great change was taking place in Alexandrine's 
 mind, Femand had reached Boury (on the 17th of March), and 
 left it again on the evening of the same day with my parents and 
 Eugenie. 
 
 The following letter, from Eugenie to myself, gives the account 
 
 * This was understating the truth, but Alexandrine was not a Catholic at 
 that time. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 
 of all that took place from the day when Alexandrine wrote the 
 preceding letter : — 
 
 EUG:6nIE to PAULINE. 
 
 ' Venice, March 24th, 1836. 
 
 ' We got here yesterday morning, but how shall I collect my 
 senses to tell you all about it ? My dearest Pauline, I hardly 
 know where I am, or how I feel ! There are emotions too strong 
 to be contained either by the heart or brain. They bring about 
 a kind of dulness which looks hke indifference, and all the 
 time the poor heart is bursting, and cannot express what it 
 feels. Well, yesterday at two o'clock we arrived at Mestre. 
 What anguish it was, for at that decisive moment all our fears 
 seemed to return ! With beating hearts we asked at the post 
 office whether there is a letter for us. None. Then was it a 
 good or bad sign ? Without speaking a word, trembling, but 
 trying to hope, we got into the boat, and drew near that sorrow- 
 ful Venice. 
 
 ' PauUne, how good God is ! We were soon released from 
 our cruel suspense. Half way up the canal, at the place where 
 the passports are given up, it occurred to us to ask if by any 
 chance there was a letter for us : "/Si Signore c'e una lettera." 
 [" Yes, sir, there is a letter."] What worlds one has time to 
 think and feel in one single second ! It can never be described. 
 There it was, that dear letter, and in the twinkling of an eye was 
 opened and read ! He was better, he was getting better every 
 day. We might even find him out on the balcony. Pauline, my 
 dearest, I write incoherently, just what I felt and thought at the 
 moment, and even describing it renews my agitation. I almost 
 wished to make you share the anguish, in order that you might 
 enter into the joy and surprise that succeeded. 
 
 ' Alexandrine insisted in her letter on the extraordinary pre- 
 cautions wliich were to be observed, for Albert could not bear 
 the least excitement, or even to see us, till he had been gradually 
 prepared for it. 
 
 ' After many comings and goings from their lodging to the 
 hotel, and calculations between us, he was told of the arrival of 
 a party of travellers, and then Alex came in and said we were 
 the travellers, and upon that my father went to him, and 
 afterwards each of us in turn. And Grod blessed it all, so 
 that he was quite composed, and the terrible danger of any 
 shock was got over. O ! Pauline, had we not great reason to be 
 grateful ? 
 
 ' At the end of the evening papa and mamma returned to the 
 hotel. I helped mamma to undress, and then went back to sleep 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. '209 
 
 at Alex's house. Then, dear Pauline, I heard the details of that 
 unspeakable grief, and then I thought how God must love our 
 Alex, for He alone could give such strength and sweetness, and 
 mix such immense consolation with such bitter trials. She has 
 spent hours of agony by his side, but always remained calm and 
 tearless, that he might not be troubled. She used sometimes to 
 feel her hands growing cold and her knees trembling, as the 
 thought came into her mind : " Perhaps he will die now — perhaps 
 this is the moment !" For two days, having given up hope, she 
 made no prayer but this : " .^ my God, let him not die without 
 Communion!'* and when that prayer had been heard came an- 
 other : " .' my God, grant that he may not die without seeing his 
 father and mother once more .'" 
 
 ' When these two hopes had been realized, she felt resigned. 
 But how strange it is, dear Pauline, to be able to scan every- 
 thing, speak of everything, and look sorrow so closely in the face. 
 I believe it is the thought of another world which makes it pos- 
 sible ; the conviction that there alone will be happiness, and that 
 this life is only a journey, the end of which we long for, because 
 then the weary will be at rest, darkness will vanish, and the great 
 yearning for love and happiness be for ever filled. Alex and I 
 were talking quietly yesterday of the great sorrow which is hang- 
 ing over us, and supposing it to have happened, we could under- 
 s and, not indeed the possibility of being in one sense comforted, 
 but that of living so entirely in sight of a future happiness 
 already enjoyed by some one beloved, that earthly sorrow would 
 be lightened. It is not very difficult to detach oneself from this 
 world, and when that is once effected, death is no longer terrible. 
 Poor Alex ! I must speak to you now of the important step she 
 is about to take. It is not yet done, but it is, thank God, as 
 good as done. During those terrible days, when Albert was so 
 ill, her great anxiety was that he should not die without the con- 
 solation of receiving Communion with her ; she has written to 
 her mother. I do not know whether her letter will strike you as 
 it did me. I think there is something about it that shows her 
 mind to be irrevocably made up. She is so Catholic ! It is easy 
 to see that she thirsts for our religion. In her letter to-day to 
 M. de Montalembert, there is this strange expression : " I should 
 he happier as a widow and a Catholic, than as I am now, a 
 Protestant.'' What do you say to that ? It seems to me as if 
 nothing could go beyond it. 
 
 ' But now having given you a little hope, which I myself 
 cherished, I am going to discourage you again. It is perhaps 
 cruel; and forgive me, but I want you to go through all the 
 alternations we ourselves experience. Albert's terrible illness 
 
 P 
 
210 A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 keeps Tis continually fluctuating between hope and fear. Some- 
 times we hope — sometimes we despair. It is thought that he 
 may be able to travel in a fortnight or three weeks. But, dearest 
 Pauline, what a journey it will be ! For it is easy to perceive, 
 from the doctor's anxiety for it to be over, how much he dreads 
 the possibility of a fresh attack on the way, and he does not 
 conceal from us that such an attack would be fatal. He speaks 
 without the least reserve. Yesterday he said to my father : 
 " Sir, I have nothing more to say ; I have seen one miracle, and 
 God may work a second. It is a miracle that your son is still 
 living, and another miracle may still cure him. Humanly speak- 
 ing, I can give no opinion, but God can do all things." 
 
 ' Pauline, this seems so sad ! So sad that it would make one 
 giddy and sick, if one looked upon it from an earthly point of 
 view. I can only bear it by thinking continually of God, and of 
 that life where at last there will be rest. Alexandrine and I were 
 talking just now of this to one another. It is this only which 
 prevents her from going out of her mind, and will save her from 
 it, if she is to lose him. 
 
 ' Good-bye, my beloved Pauline. When shall I have a letter 
 from you, and when shall we get back again ? Oh, that we had 
 wings and could fly with him to France. Whenever we start 
 you must pray, and get everybody to pray for as. God's will be 
 done in all things ! ' 
 
 FROM alexandrine's JOURNAL. 
 
 * Long and cruel suspense is often followed by great joys. 
 Through the God of goodness, of love, I have had the happiness 
 of seeing Albert in the arms of his parents once more. I knelt 
 down in silence behind them to thank God for this great mercy. 
 
 ' Eugenie spent the night in my room. Oh, what sweet hours 
 we spent in talking and weeping together ! She brought me a 
 rosary and a letter from Mental, which at first she did not like 
 to give me, because he had written it under the impression that 
 Albert was at the worst. I guessed, however, that he had not 
 sent me the rosary without writing, and she saw that it was use- 
 less to hide anything from me. So she gave me the letter, and 
 this is it : — 
 
 (count de montalembert to alexandrine.) 
 
 * " My dear unhappy Friend, — I have no idea what state these 
 few lines will find you in, and which I send by your mother-in- 
 law ; but I know too well that you are suffering from the most 
 cruel anxiety, if not from the most heartrending grief. I know 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 211 
 
 also that you have often called me your brother, and have been 
 a true sister to me, and this gives me a right to approach you at 
 this terrible moment, and to unite my sufferings to yours. Not 
 having heard from you at all since the 3rd of December, I knew 
 nothing of our dear Albert's relapse, of your fresh anxiety, and 
 the danger he was in, and had remained under the favourable 
 impression produced by your letters from Venice. And now I 
 suddenly hear of that dreadful attack and its alarming results. 
 And, alas ! in what state are you now, whilst I write ? Is he 
 still with you ? and are you still in possession of that noble 
 energy and admirable courage which I have observed in your 
 character? 
 
 ' " This mournful uncertainty — this terrible doubt paralyses 
 me ; I have not courage to write ; still less to speak to you of 
 that ray of hope which I cherish in spite of the most hopeless 
 evidence. I am afraid of each of my words sounding like an 
 involuntary mockery, a cruel contradiction of what you may be 
 feeling at this moment. I know them well, those horrible fluc- 
 tuations, those sudden transitions from trust to despair, those 
 instinctive clingings to hope, that belief that the Divine mercy 
 will intervene, which nothing can root out of our hearts, till the 
 moment when it has no longer any place ! I, too, have watched 
 for six months by the side of a beloved one, wrestling as it were 
 with death, that she might remain with me — my poor sister, 
 whose lot was so sad. I have therefore recollections which help 
 me to enter into all your sufferings, besides that powerful sym- 
 pathy which affection produces. 
 
 * " Even at this sad moment I cannot refrain from saying what 
 comfort it gave me to hear that you had made up your mind to 
 complete your union with Albert, by that only tie which was 
 still wanting to make it perfect. My dear sister — for so you are 
 indeed become by this important act, inspired by Divine grace — 
 what a consolation there is in this, not only for you, but also for 
 him, as it has been doubtless through his means that you have 
 become a child of the Eternal Truth, and that your soul will be 
 the rich prize he can present to his merciful Judge. 
 
 * " You, too, dear Alexandrine, will now quench your thirst 
 for consolation at that inexhaustible source ; you will be 
 nourished with the Bread of the strong, and G-od will reward 
 you for the sacrifice you have had to make, a hundredfold in this 
 world, and for ever in the next. He will show you the immense, 
 the unspeakable difference between suffering as a Catholic, with 
 all the sweet and abundant riches of the Church imparted to 
 you, and suffering with no other support than the cold and 
 barren faith poor Protestants profess. 
 
 P 2 
 
212 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 ' " Farewell. I have not courage to go on. I dare not speak of 
 Albert. You will understand this terrible silence. Pray accept 
 this poor little rosary. May it often suggest to you the thought 
 of abandoning yourself wholly to the tender compassion of the 
 Mother of Sorrows, the Comforter of the Afflicted, the Health of 
 the Sick. It is a humble token of sympathy and affection. 
 When you feel able to do so, write a line to one who is not afraid 
 to call himself your brother, and who will ever be so by the tie 
 of a common faith, as well as by the most sincere attachment. 
 — M. *" March 15th, 1836." 
 
 (alexandrine's answer to count de montalembert.) 
 
 * Venice, March 24th. 
 
 ' My dear Friend, — I hardly know how to begin this letter. 
 My thoughts of late have been so confused ! I must, however, 
 begin by thanking God. His goodness to me has been, as it 
 always is, infinite. You have heard everything ; all that has 
 been dreadful to us, and all that has been comforting. It would 
 be ungrateful in me not to say that there have been moments of 
 consolation, but always mingled with cruel fears, and daily 
 wearisome apprehensions. But, however, Albert gets up now ; 
 he walks about, and is able to sit and enjoy the fresh air on the 
 balcony. He can talk a good while without coughing, and since 
 yesterday has had the happiness he so ardently desired of seeing 
 his parents and Eugenie once more. For many days my only 
 prayer was that he might not die without Communion, and that 
 petition was heard. Then I implored that he might live to see 
 his father once more, and this too was granted. I obtained 
 these favours, and still went on asking for others, for I was 
 sure God in His mercy would pardon my importunity. 
 
 ' Eugenie gave me your little rosary last night. It touched 
 me more deeply than I can say. As a token of sympathy and 
 affection it did not surprise me, but the sort of regard it im- 
 plied astonished me very much. Afterwards I understood it 
 better, for having pressed Eugenie to tell me all you had said, 
 I found out that there was also a letter for me, but that you 
 had told her it would be cruel to let me have it, if the worst 
 grief had not befallen us. You may suppose that I insisted on 
 her giving it to me, and sorry I should indeed have been not to 
 have possessed it ! 
 
 ' Alas ! dear friend, you may judge of what I have been obliged 
 to hear and say, and of the words I have become forcibly ac- 
 customed to, when I tell you that your letter did not startle 
 me, and that the friendship and sympathy it expresses did me 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 213 
 
 good. May God reward yon for yonr compassionate feelings ! 
 i am almost glad, however, that you still have misgivings as to 
 my courage, and that your cruel zeal makes you say : " If hap- 
 pily as regards Albert, but unhappily for her, he got better, she 
 would draw back." Dear friend, ten days after he was in such 
 imminent danger, I wrote my mother a letter which you must 
 let me copy for you. Grerman is as familiar to you as to me, 
 and therefore I send it just as it is. I must beg you beforehand 
 to remember that mine is the best of mothers, and that it will 
 certainly be better if I can do my duty towards God without 
 breaking her heart. 
 
 ' The letter is so long that I am afraid it will tire you to read 
 it ; but it was written with a good purpose, and before I began 
 I begged all my Cathohc ancestors who are in Heaven to pray 
 for me. 
 
 ' Dear friend, I long to be a Catholic. You think me inclined 
 to be weak, indifferent, and cold, yet I believe I have felt that 
 I should probably be happier as a widow and a Catholic, than as 
 I am and a Protestant, or neither the one Twr the other. . . . Oh, 
 my God ! * 
 
 'Yes, my dear friend, unless God strikes me dead I will 
 receive Communion with Albert, whether he is to live or die. 
 This is my firm resolution, and may God enable me to fulfil it ! 
 Either I believe in nothing or I believe in the Holy Eucharist as 
 much as in the Blessed Trinity. Then I see in my Protestant 
 New Testament that St. Paul's garments and handkerchiefs had 
 power to heal the sick, and why should God altogether discon- 
 tinue such manifestations of His grace ? My faith is not very 
 keen, but I should be afraid of uttering a blasphemy if I said it 
 was impossible that a particle of the bones of a Saint should, 
 through God's mercy, heal the sick. Oh ! how many things I 
 shall have to say to you ! Pray that my beloved one, with whose 
 life God has linked my own, may live, die, and live again in 
 Heaven with me .... and do not you judge anybody, my 
 dear, good, sweet brother, you whose heart is made to love. Do 
 not judge my mother, with whose pious motto you were so 
 pleased. " Wie, was, und wann Gott will.'' f You are quite 
 right : from a loving weahness for her I delayed my conversion, 
 and from another loving weakness I hasten it now. But I trust 
 God will forgive it all.' 
 
 * When, long after, she read over this letter, Alexandrine wrote on the 
 margin : — ' How wonderful is the attraction of Divine truth, since one single 
 T'w of it falling on my soul was enough to make me prefer it to my husband, 
 Lefore even I had embraced it.' 
 
 f How, what, and when God wills. 
 
214 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 • March 25th, Feast of the Annunciation. 
 
 * My dear friend, I prayed very much for you at Mass. I took 
 your rosary with me. You will some day teach me to say it, 
 and I shall ask you, too, for another present, for I want my first 
 Catholic Prayer-book to be your gift. You can choose it at 
 leisure, for it will be some time yet before I really want it. If 
 it is possible, let it be in German, — the language that is so full of 
 feeling and power, which we are both so fond of ; the language 
 of my childhood and my parents, which will seem to form a link 
 between them and my new religion. 
 
 ' I hope we shall meet soon. Pray for me every day. Albert 
 continues well, all things considered. Thank God. 
 
 ' Alex.' 
 
 The same day, March 25th, in her journal : — ' Eugenie dined 
 with me, and afterwards we went to Benediction at St. Moses's 
 Church, where we heard Mass in the morning. 
 
 ' One evening, during Benediction, I had one of those sudden 
 impressions of faith, those beams of light which made me realize 
 the existence of God, rehgion, the Blessed Virgin, and the. Saints, 
 with the same certainty as we have when we look upon external 
 and material objects ; I say the same certainty, because in our 
 gross mB;nner of considering things, we are always tempted to 
 think that there is nothing so certain as what we see and what 
 we touch. This pleased me very much, and I told Eugenie of it 
 as we walked home through the narrow alley.' 
 
 FROM A LETTER OP ALEXANDRINE' S TO PAULINE. 
 
 • March 26th. 
 ' You are quite right. We must be like Eugenie, and try to love 
 death. It is the only love which cannot deceive us. As regards 
 myself, Pauline, I ought never to complain of anything, for after 
 my father's death, I asked with all the fervour and earnestness in 
 my power, not to have a single happy moment on earth, if only God 
 would make him eternally happy; and yet how many happy hours 
 I have known since then ! My daily prayer used to be : "If^/ 
 God, let me suffer in his stead !^^ During the last dreadful months 
 I changed it to, ^^ Accept what I have suffered, and do siffer, hut 
 spare my father suffering.'^ My weakness shrank from asking for 
 m.ore sorrow.' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Venice, April 2nd, 1836. 
 
 * My darling Pauline ! How sad it is for you, but thank God 
 you know how to pray. There is after all no sorrow without 
 
A SISTER'S 8T0BT. 215 
 
 comfort, for we can always pray, and in prayer there is endless 
 solace. I have felt this so deeply during this last truly Holy 
 Week. Its holiness had never struck me so much before. 
 
 ' If the weather improves, we shall start on Thursday, and 
 begin our long, tedious, and anxious journey. I shall write to you 
 continually on the road, for our letters will precede us up to the 
 last moment. 
 
 * My beloved Pauline, how I bless God that He permits me to 
 retain that same strong, religious feeling with which I started. I 
 have had moments of thorough happiness, in which I felt one 
 absorbing and intense love of God. I think I am not deceived. 
 It was love, joyful, earnest love, filling the heart so fully, so en- 
 viably, and at the same time a general charity for all mankind. 
 It seemed to me as if there were not a single being on earth 
 against whom I had the least animosity, or for whom, moreover, 
 I would not have been willing to pray, and even to suffer. It was 
 a Divine feeling, for it came from God, and so was, of course, full 
 of peace.' 
 
 alexandrine's jouenal. 
 
 * Easter Monday, April 4th. — Femand brought me two little 
 manuscripts which he had stolen from Eugenie. Albert was 
 asleep, and as I was alone till late that evening, I read them from 
 beginning to end.* 
 
 * What feelings rose up in my poor untamed heart, as I devoured 
 those pages in Albert's silent room ! I tore a page out of an 
 account book, and began to write upon it to Eugenie : — 
 
 ' " Twelve o'clock. — Eugenie, my dearest sister, I owe it to 
 you, that twice while reading your written thoughts, I knelt down 
 and prayed most fervently. My good angel, I feel such faith in 
 you, that if you tell me you hope, I shall not despair. It is 
 thought praiseworthy in me because I am careful of Albert, and 
 give him his medicines at the proper times, and because I did not 
 lose my head when he was in danger. But you — you offer your- 
 self up for him,t and God knows with what ardour and single- 
 ness of heart, while you think nothing of it yourself, and no one 
 praises you ! Oh, my angelic sister, I implore you to plead for 
 us. Ah ! where will you be in a few years' time ? Happy ? 
 Yes, happy in a way which can never know any change. So be 
 it. Continue to give your heart to God as you have hitherto 
 done, but stay with us awhile, to make us happy and good also. 
 
 * Tlie pages from Eng^nie's journal here alluded to will be found in the 
 Appendix. The deep impression tiiey made on Alexandrin e will be easily under- 
 stood by those who read them. 
 
 t See Appendix. 
 
216 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 You help me to realize Heaven, and if any one could teach me to 
 despise this life it would be you. I really believe that to know 
 you would have been enough to make me embrace the Catholic 
 religion. Your modesty must not take offence at this. It is im- 
 possible that it should not give you pleasure to hear it, and God 
 does not condemn that pleasure. Reflect a little, and you will 
 see that you ought to rejoice at it. Do not be afraid that the 
 admiration I feel for you will ever blind me. We shall live to- 
 gether a great deal, I hope, and rely upon it I will watch your 
 conduct very narrowly. It is not presumption which makes me 
 engage to perform this task. Those who have a beam in their 
 own eye see very clearly the mote in another's eyes, and I shall 
 look very carefully to see that nothing tarnishes the purity of 
 God's beautiful little pearl. Oh ! what happiness undreamt of by 
 the world it is to have a sister like you, and to love her as I do." 
 .... In the morning I sent this note to Eugenie, and she 
 came to me quite ashamed and blushing. . . . But it was only 
 much later that I read the whole of her manuscripts.' 
 
 EUG'^NIE TO PAULINE.* 
 
 ' Venice, April 9th. 
 
 'We are still here, and have spent the morning in such 
 uncertainty ! When we got up it was fine, and we were to go. 
 Albert had had a good night. He was calm, and glad to be 
 moving. Then it began to rain. The doctor advised us to put 
 off the journey, and this excited Albert so much that we did not 
 know what to do. Alex and I did nothing but wander about 
 like restless spirits. On the whole, we both wished to start ; 
 she, because she has a superstitious idea that it is unlucky to 
 delay anything which has been settled, and I, because of the 
 words a good Priest had said to me at church that morning, 
 " Andate, andate ! non importa la piove ; fidatevi a Bio ; partite. 
 Iddio vi henedica, fidatevi, partite F'f Well, I regretted that we 
 did not go, but what could I say ? Who could have ventured to 
 incur the responsibility of giving an opinion on the subject ? 
 
 'My father has just decided to stay. Alex and I are alone 
 with Albert, who repeats over a,nd over again, " I had always 
 a foreboding that I should never leave Venice." You may 
 imagine how this depresses us ; and you will feel for a little 
 vexation we have just had. Whilst Albert was speaking to 
 us in that way, and getting more and more out of spirits, I 
 
 * We had left Paris after hearing of their safe arrival at Venice, and 1 
 received this letter in England. 
 
 t ' Go — go — never mind the rain. Trust in God — go. God bless you. Have 
 confidence, and go. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 217 
 
 opened my desk, and found my poor cornelian ring, which was 
 not at all a brittle one, with the stone broken, and the anchor 
 spht in two ! (It was a red cornelian, with an anchor cut 
 upon it.) This gave Alex and me a kind of shock. Our poor 
 shattered hope ! Tears came into our eyes. I cannot guess 
 when and how it can have happened, but we are quite out of 
 sorts. Pazienza ! to-morrow wdl come, please Grod, and 
 happier hours with it. Our forebodings and our broken hojoe 
 will prove fallacious omens. 
 
 ' Five o'clock. 
 
 * Dearest, as we complained this morning, we must hasten 
 to tell you that things are looking better. Albert slept very 
 well after his fit of despondency. He seems well now, and in 
 good spirits, and he declares that the broken ring, which he, too, 
 had thought an ominous token, means the anchor which fastens 
 Tis to Venice, and that it breaks to let us go free !' 
 
 • Sunday, April lOth. 
 
 * Nothing SO lucky ^s forebodiugs, omens, and broken 
 anchors ! The weather is beautiful. "We are off. Albert is 
 better, and very happy. Grood-bye, dear Httle sister. May 
 God be with us. Pray for us all.'* 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Padua. 
 
 * We are here. Can it be really true ? We are actually here 
 with Albert, and bringing him home.' 
 
 'April 10th, 1836. 
 
 * My darling, we are at Padua ! If I had written immediately 
 my letter would have gone to-day, but it was right before we 
 thought of you to think of God, and to thank Him, for we 
 have started, and we are here, and Albert is not very tired ; 
 indeed, scarcely tired at all. As soon as we had seen him com- 
 fortably in bed, we went to the Cathedral. Oh, it was just 
 what we wanted, to kneel there and unburthen our hearts by 
 repeating a thousand times : " My God, I thank Thee ! my God, 
 I bless Thee !" That beautiful church was lighted up, filled 
 with people, and the organ playing. We had Benediction, and 
 it was, indeed, a good token, this holy ending of a day in which 
 we had been so mercifally protected. 
 
 * That broken anchor sealed two months later the letter which told me that 
 all our hopes for Albert were at an end. Six years afterwards it also sealed the 
 one which announced to me my father's death ; and by a really singular coin- 
 cidence, the saddest letter I ever received, the one which was sent to me from 
 Palermo after Eugenie's own death, was stamped with the same seal. 
 
 UlUll/r-n^ 
 
218 A 8I8TEW8 STORY. 
 
 ' Do you really believe it, PauHne ? Do you think we shall 
 get home ? Well, let us hope and trust in God. Come what 
 may, God can never ordain anything but what is good. 
 
 * I am so pleased to think that we shall be able to hear Mass 
 every day before we start. How Heavenly sweet is the thought 
 of God ; and when it rules the soul, how easy everything 
 becomes ; nothing is then really sad. Mass every morning ; 
 every evening a blessed moment in Church, in which to thank 
 God, if the day has been a good one, or to implore His aid if it 
 has been trying. This journey is a real pilgrimage of prayer. 
 Dear Pauline, we shall see you again, I Jwpe, I hope. 
 
 ' You who, like ourselves, have a kind of faith in opening 
 upon passages of books by chance, should see what we read in 
 our volume of texts as we were leaving Venice : " Before tJiey 
 cry out to me, I will hear them ; and whilst they are yet speaking, I 
 have heard them.** (Isaiah.) And then, ^^ Let us draw near to 
 Him with a sincere heart, with a full and perfect confidence.*' 
 (Hebrews xi.) What do you say to that ? Good night, dearest.' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Verona, April 13th, 1836. 
 
 * Dear Love, — It is wonderful how well Albert is at present. 
 We are quite astonished, and so grateful to our good and merci- 
 ful God. Oh, if only this improvement might last ! He is so 
 well and cheerful, and enjoys feeling himself so much better 
 than he had done for a long time. Pauline, surely God protects 
 and hears us . . . but come what may, we must always be 
 grateful. Let us always pray, always love, even if this unex- 
 pected improvement is only a reprieve and comfort under the 
 terrible sorrow which is hanging over us. Amidst such trying 
 circumstances, if God chooses to send us this grief, let us not 
 murmur at His will, and always gratefally call to mind the 
 happiness of these present hours.' 
 
 ALEXANDEINE TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 * Genoa, April 22nd, 1836. 
 
 * Dear Friend, — Through the mercy of God we are so far 
 safe on our journey, .... but I dare not look beyond the 
 present moment, and I dread to think even of the next day. 
 I pass from one anguish to another, and when a little ray of 
 hope comes athwart me, I feel comparatively happy. Nothing 
 can be more fatiguing than this existence, and yet it does not 
 affect my health. It is all so strange. Everything seems 
 reversed. I feel at times a singular insensibility, and at others 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 snch wonderful impressions. The colouring of my mind seems 
 reflected in all I see in this sad life. What are God's intentions 
 for me ? I am often afraid that He punishes me for refusing to 
 give Him my whole heart, for clinging as I do to earthly joy. 
 Alas ! it is on these I had fixed my desires, and now I see there 
 is nothing but a semblance of happiness here below. I ought 
 to S€ek it elsewhere, but I cannot lift up my soul as I would. 
 .... I do not understand the bliss of Heaven, and yet I see 
 that others have a foretaste of it which detaches them quite 
 from the world. But, dear friend, notwithstanding this thick 
 mist which encompasses my soul, I have the deepest reverence for 
 Heavenly things, and I hope this reverence will gradually lead 
 me to love them. I admired so much in your Introduction the 
 picture you draw of the ties which unite the Saints in Heaven 
 with men on earth. I have not, or at least I have lost the pride 
 oi iirivate judgment; for I have often thought that it would be 
 enough to think that Albert and his sisters and you are 
 Cathohcs, to make me one. My feeble intellect may therefore 
 very well accept what the Saints have beheved, who no doubt 
 are a little better still than you ! 
 
 ' Thank you for your dear letter, which I found here, and the 
 Counsel and advice it contains. I should have so many things to 
 say to you, but I am overcome with drowsiness .... I showed 
 Albert your rosary ; of course not your letter ; but he does not 
 wonder at your silence. He is too affectionate, too full of trust 
 to do so. He looks up to you as much as ever .... Oh ! 
 shall I soon be able to talk to you ? Do not be afraid that I 
 shall keep from you any of my doubts and religious difficulties. 
 You will always know, if you wish it, everything I think. The 
 best part of my character is, perhaps, its sincerity and openness. 
 Pray every day for me, for I pray badly myself; yet I feel to 
 love God. Eugenie is very grateful for your message. I am 
 delighted that you were so struck with her goodness. I do 
 not think there is anywhere on earth another woman so like an 
 angel. 
 
 ' Dear Mental, will God allow us to get to Paris ? I will write 
 to you again on the road. May we aZZ, all^ all meet again ! ' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 • Paris. We are here ! May 13th. 
 
 * My Pauline, — Here we are, and thank God ! But what an 
 excitement it has been, for only think of our being here since the 
 day before yesterday, and of my not having had a moment to 
 write to you ! I am so excited, so bewildered, and only wish you 
 
220 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 here. I have so many things to say, and wish yon conld see and 
 judge for yourself. Now I must try and collect my thoughts. 
 On Wednesday, at six o'clock in the evening, we arrived at Ville- 
 juif, where we found Madame de Lagrange, Charles, and Kmma. 
 This, to begin with, was exciting for Albert. Then Montal came, 
 
 and in the evening a number of people Hahnemann, 
 
 the discoverer of homoeopathy, came yesterday at five o'clock. 
 He is a kind, excellent, little old man. He was so much touched 
 at the sight of Alexandrine, that he took her by the hand wheu 
 he went away, and said : — " During the sixty years I have been 
 a physician, I have never seen a woman so fond of her husband." 
 He wishes us to leave this house, where the rooms are too small. 
 We are going to look out for some apartments near the Luxem- 
 bourg.* 
 
 alexandrine's journal. 
 
 • May 19th. 
 
 * Yesterday, while I was dining with Eugenie, she told me that 
 the idea of death made her heart beat with joy. It astonished 
 me, but these things strengthen my faith. 
 
 ' May 22nd, Whit Sunday. 
 
 * My God, Thon hast sought in so many ways to detach me 
 from this world, and still I cling to it. Oh ! why cannot I love 
 and long for Heaven ? Since y&sterday (the 21st) we have been 
 settled in the Rue de Madame, No 13. 
 
 ' I shall be a Catholic before Corpus Christi ! The Abbe Ger- 
 bet* will be my confessor, but the Abbe Martin de Noirlieu, the 
 first Catholic Priest I ever made acquaintance with, will receive 
 me into the Church. 
 
 * Our apartment is pretty and spacious, and our windows look 
 on the fine trees of the Luxembourg. As I was coming back 
 from Mass on Sunday I saw Albert at the window smihng at me, 
 and when I came into his room, I saw a charming little table 
 and a carved chair. His father, who was there, told me this was 
 a present from Albert to me, and that he had wished them both 
 to be covered with blue cloth, because he knew it was my 
 favourite colour. 
 
 ' This afternoon I went with Eugenie to the service for the 
 month of May at St. Etienne du Mont. Before going out we 
 
 * She had never seen him there. But one day at Venice, she had read an 
 article by him in the Universite Catholique, and was so impressed with it, that 
 she resolved if ever she became a Catholic to choose him for her confessor. The 
 Abbe Gerbet was not at Paris when she arrived, but she nevertheless persisted 
 in the resolution formed before she heard him, and so great was the consolation 
 she derived from his ministry, that it would seem as if Alexandrine's choice had 
 been directed by a special Providence. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 221 
 
 wished Albert good-bye, and we saw that he was writing in the 
 green velvet book I had embroidered for him at Venice. Before 
 we went to bed, Eugenie and I, who were together in the draw- 
 ing-room, took up the book and looked into it. I do not know 
 what I felt when I read as follows : — " My God, formerly I was 
 wont to make to Thee this prayer : ' Let her be mine, ! my 
 G-od, grant me that happiness, if but for one single day ! ' 
 Thou didst grant it, ! Lord, and why should I now complain 
 to thee ? My joy has been short but intense, and now my other 
 prayer is about to be fulfilled. Thy Divine goodness has granted 
 also that my angel wife should be received into Thy Church, and 
 I can look forward with hope and trust to our meeting before 
 long, where we shall both be lost in the immensity of Thy Divine 
 love."* 
 
 * Albert had offered his life to obtain his wife's conversion. 
 Oh; with what deep emotion I read these lines, containing such 
 deep love of God, such great tenderness to me, and so calm an 
 acceptance of death ; when it still seemed to me so horrible that 
 he should have to look it in the face ; and afterwards, how often 
 I kissed those words " before long^ ' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 * Paris, May 28th. 
 
 * I begin my letter this evening, and shall finish it to-morrow. 
 Pauhne, to-morrow Alexandrine will be a Catholic, and you, alas ! 
 will not be with us. Shall we ever quite get over this ? If, at 
 least, you could come in time for Thursday, of which I have still 
 some hopes, and write this letter reckoning a little on your not 
 receiving it. On Thursday she will make her first Communion. 
 These are great joys, dearest, in the midst of our sorrow. How 
 can we murmur with such real reasons for thanksgiving ? I shall 
 not write any more now, for I look forward to seeing you before 
 you get the letter. But in case you receive it, good-bye. I love 
 you more, even more, than in the happiest days of our loving 
 childhood. May God bless our Alexandrine to-morrow ! ' 
 
 alexandrine's journal.' 
 
 ' May 29th, Trinity Sunday. 
 
 * This morning I went early to Mass, came home and dressed. 
 I put on a white gown and a broad blue ribbon across my chest, 
 the colours of the Blessed Virgin, which have always been my 
 own favourites. This is her special month, too, and I owe this 
 
 * These were the last words Albert ever wrote. The Abbe Gerbet described 
 them later as the most sublime bequest of tender love and heroic resignation 
 which the spirit of Christianity ever enabled a husband to make. 
 
A SISTER'S STORT, 
 
 grace to lier intercession, whicli the good Franciscan at Pisa told 
 me to ask, and to Albert who offered himself up as a sacrifice 
 for me, who offered everything to God, even the joy of sensible devotion^ 
 for my conversion, only asking always to love good things. 
 
 ' The Abbe Martin de Noirlieu said Mass at an Altar prepared 
 in Albert's room. When Mass was over he beckoned to me to 
 come and kneel down before him, and told me to make the sign 
 of the Cross, and then I read the following profession of 
 faith :— 
 
 ' " In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
 Ghost, Amen : 
 
 ' " I firmly believe and confess, together and singly, all the 
 Articles contained in the Creed of the Holy Catholic Apostolic 
 Roman Chnrch. 
 
 ' '* I believe that to worship any other than the one God — 
 Father, Son, and Holy Ghost — ^is detestable idolatry. I believe, 
 with the Church Catholic, that it is a good and profitable thing 
 to invoke the Blessed Virgin and the Saints, and to seek their 
 help to obtain benefits from God, through Our Lord Jesus Christ, 
 our only Saviour and Redeemer. 
 
 ' " While paying reverence to the images of the Blessed Virgin 
 and the Saints, I do not ascribe to them any virtue or Divine 
 qualities, through which reverence should be paid them, benefits 
 asked of them or trust be placed in them : the honour given them 
 solely regards those whom the images represent. 
 
 ' " I believe that seven Sacraments were instituted by Our 
 Lord Jesus Christ. 
 
 ' " I beheve that Our Lord Jesus Christ left to His Church the 
 power of granting Indulgences, and that their use is profitable. 
 
 '"I believe that such souls as leave this life in grace and, 
 charity, but still debtors to the Divine justice, suffer for a time 
 in Purgatory, and are helped by our prayers, alms, and the Sacri- 
 fice of the Mass. 
 
 ' " I believe that by virtue of the words of consecration the 
 bread and wine offered on the Altar are changed into the Body 
 and Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ, and that He is received 
 whole and entire under one species only. 
 
 * " I beheve that there is but one Faith and one Baptism, as 
 there is but one Lord and God, and that it is impossible to please 
 Him, and therefore be saved without this faith and baptism. 
 
 ' " I believe that this true faith is found only in the Catholic 
 Church, which by the succession of its pastors ascends to the 
 Apostles ; that this is the Church founded by our Lord Jesus 
 Christ, Who has promised to sustain it with His Holy Spirit, and 
 remain with it always, to the end of the world. 
 
 1: 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 * ** I believe that no one can be saved out of tbe Catholic 
 Chnrch, but I condemn none who have the misfortune to live 
 and die out of its Communion. God alone is their Judge, and 
 knows how far their ignorance of the faith was wilful and blame- 
 worthy. 
 
 ' " I believe that the interpretation of Holy Scripture was given 
 only to the Apostles and their lawful successors, to whom Our 
 Lord said : ' Go ye, and teach all nations.' 
 
 * " I believe, therefore, with heart and mind the doctrines of the 
 CathoHc Church, and I desire to live and die in it, by God's 
 grace, which I shall daily bless for having recalled me to the 
 religion of my forefathers. 
 
 * " In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy 
 Ghost. Amen. 
 
 ' " Paris, May 29tli, 1836, Trinity Sunday. 
 
 ' " Martin de Noirlieu. 
 
 * " Alexandrine d'Alopeus de la Ferronnays. 
 
 * " In the presence of: — 
 
 * " Albert de la Ferronnays, 
 
 * " Comte de la Ferronnays, 
 
 * " Montsoreau, Comtesse de la Ferronnays, 
 ' ' ' Eugenie de la Ferronnays, 
 
 * " Femand de la Ferronnays." 
 
 * Montalembert was present, but I forgot to make him sign. 
 
 ' When all was over I kissed Albert and all our other dear ones. 
 The Abbe Martin came up to me and said : " Madam, you have 
 now brethren in every part of the world." I felt as if a new 
 existence had begun for me ; and I was so happy, so happy ! I 
 was quite surprised at it myself, and was almost afraid to have 
 been in too high spirits the rest of the day with my poor Albert. 
 Eugenie wrote the following sentences that evening in her book, 
 and I read them : — 
 
 ' " Oh ! my Lord, what can we say? or how can we thank 
 Thee, for the mercies of this day? Thy little lamb has been 
 gathered into the fold. She is now a Catholic ! Fill her gentle 
 soul with joy, my God ; bless and comfort her for these long 
 years of banishment from Thee ; let this return to her true home 
 be fall of happiness. Pour down Thy gifts upon her, and if out 
 of Thy great love for her soul Thou sendest her trials, give her 
 that immense love for Thee alone which will make her bear 
 and love all things Thy Almighty hand may inflict. Ye blessed 
 Angels, watch over her, that her peace may be great, and her 
 soul untroabled." 
 
 * I have since heard that in that night, of the 29th, my mother 
 dreamed that she saw me sitting in a white garment, looking 
 
224 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 like a little child again, with a crown of flowers on my head like 
 rays; and that all this apparel displeased her. But I continually 
 offered her some of the large flowers with which I was crowned, 
 and she refused them. Ah ! how long will she refuse? 
 
 ' May 30th. — Mental came and brought the Abbe Gerbet with 
 him. Albert was in. the drawing-room when they arrived, and 
 many years afterwards the Abbe Gerbet told me that he could 
 never forget the gleam of intense joy in Albert's eyes, when he 
 saw him who was to administer God's grace to his own Alex. 
 He was the more struck with that expression because Albert's 
 glorious eyes were the only feature lit up with life in his altered face. 
 
 ' May 31st. — I went with Eugenie on foot to the chapel of 
 St. Stanislaus' College. When I got there and saw the Abbe 
 Gerbet in the confessional, I felt frightened, and it was some 
 time before I could summon up courage to approach it. Eugenie 
 had told me how to calm myself by prayer. 
 
 ' June 1st. — ! my good, good God, I dare to think Thy hand 
 has guided me, notwithstanding my unworthiness ! I now dis- 
 cern so many threads woven together and in one strand, so many 
 prayers heard and granted. Sweetly and gently hast Thou 
 guided my footsteps, even when lightning-strokes seem to have 
 levelled my way. Heavenly Father, give me faith; then, if Thou 
 wilt, take from me earthly joy. Or rather, give me faith, and 
 then I shall find unfailing joys both here and in Heaven. Faith, 
 which I have so intensely longed for I now possess, and shall 
 possess it more and more, for I have prayed for it, and he that 
 asketh receiveth. I do trust my faith wiQ be bright and strong 
 next Sunday. 
 
 ' I am so glad to be a Catholic ; so glad, that it seems to me 
 almost miraculous, and persuades me more and more of the truth 
 of this dear religion. How I thank God, and how I thank all 
 who have helped me. I Hke confession so much, though it causes 
 me great pain. My sweet Jesus, grant me a new heart, but let 
 me keep all my deep affections. Let all I love be saved, ^,nd let 
 all whom I and Albert love be happy for ever ! 
 
 ' I have believed. I believed so wholly to-day. And I felt so 
 profoundly happy in spite of my deep humiliation and of the 
 suffering which awaits me on Saturday, in confessing the rest of 
 my sins. What a Priest has my Heavenly Father sent me! He 
 surpasses everything I had ever hoped to find in a confessor. 
 
 ' My God ! even in Thee let me not forget my mother, my dear 
 brothers, my departed father, and my duties to my husband. 
 Let me ever remain by the side of that beloved one whom Thou 
 Thyself didst give me to be my husband ; let me follow him in 
 the midst of the shadows of death, even as in the strength of life, 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 226 
 
 and beside Lis sick bed to the gates of the grave. Let me ever 
 be close beside him, and let a well-known and beloved face be 
 before his eyes, a familiar cheering sound in his ears, and give him to 
 the last a friend and a familiar companion. Let this be my only 
 desire. Amen. S weet Virgin Mary, dear Saints of God, pray for me ! 
 
 ' During the following night, June 1st, I was in Eugenie's 
 room at one o'clock in the morning, and I thought Albert was 
 asleep. Suddenly we heard somebody softly playing chords on 
 the pianoforte, which affected us painfully. I felt sure it was 
 Albert, and that he was playing for the last time. It was he. I sat 
 down beside him, but he seemed absorbed in a sad but soothing 
 reverie. His faithJPul nurse, the Sister of Bon Secours, was with him. 
 
 ' Montalembert was much delighted with Albert's love of music 
 during his illness. He told me that sick persons generally take a 
 dishke to it. But this was in keeping with Albert's gentle and 
 loving character. He always loved it ; but just at last it wearied 
 him too much, unless the piano was played very softly. 
 
 ' On the following night, between one and two, Albert got up 
 and spent many hours in his arm-chair ; I gave him my confession 
 to read, and his rectitude and clear-headedness were of great 
 assistance to me in examining my conscience. But in the morn- 
 ing he went to bed again, and suffered terribly. 
 
 ' I could not fail to see that he was getting worse. Despair 
 then gave me courage, and I desired Eugenie to go to Hahne- 
 mann and ask him to let me know the truth. Whilst she was 
 away, I took a Prayer-book which my mother-in-law had given 
 me, and wrote in it the following passages : — 
 
 ' *' But the things that were gain to me, the same I have 
 counted loss for Christ : furthermore, I count all things to be but 
 loss for the excellent knowledge of Jesus Christ my Lord ; for 
 Whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them but 
 as dung, that I may gain Christ." (Philippians iii. 7, 8.) 
 
 ' " I have learnt, in whatever state I am, to be content there- 
 with." " I can do all things in Him who strengtheneth me." 
 (Philippians iv.) 
 
 ' Eugenie came back, and quietly answered my pressing ques- 
 tions, but was alarmed by the shock I felt at what she told me. 
 Till then I was not aware that I had still so much hope to lose. 
 When she added that Hahnemann said I was running a great 
 risk by sleeping in Albert's room, I smiled, and felt strangely glad,'* 
 
 * At that time Alexandrine was possessed by the absurd idea that she had 
 not loyed Albert with sufficient tenderness and devotion. And it was a sort of 
 relief to her when she could hit upon some tangible proofs, as it were, of the 
 intensity of her affection. This was the reason of that strange gladness she 
 speaks of at perceiving how indifferent she was to her own danger. It seems 
 wonderful that she could ever have such doubts, but the absurd torments which 
 imacrination coninres up in times of sorrow are well known to those who have 
 really loved and suffered. 
 
 Q 
 
226 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Paris, June 3rd, 1836. 
 
 ' God showers down His graces on Alexandrine — He treats 
 her like a favourite eliild. Since she has been a Catholic, her 
 calmness, peace, and fortitude are wonderful. In the midst of 
 her terrible grief she has a peace of the soul, which God only 
 can give. She, dear child, has been twice to confession, and to- 
 morrow she will receive absolution. You can picture to yourself 
 what a general confession must be to her with her merciless 
 memory, which tracks out minutely the occurrences of years and 
 years with the most scrupulous accuracy. I went twice with her 
 to the chapel of S. Stanislaus' College. She stayed so long that I 
 fell fast asleep, which made us laugh, for we laugh sometimes in 
 spite of everything and ourselves. But we feel there is no harm 
 in it, for that kind of gaiety is not like the world's. It springs 
 from the peace of prayer. The Abbe Gerbet thinks so too. Ah ! 
 Pauline, what an immense grace it is that Alex should have met 
 with him just now. She says so herself, and constantly declares 
 that he is everything she could wish. His exceeding gentleness, 
 and the boundless charity which belongs to his character, are 
 perceptible in his words, and very looks, as well as in his 
 writings. 
 
 ' Alexandrine is to make her first Communion on Sunday, if 
 Albert can go there ; it will be in the chapel of the Infant Jesus, 
 where you received absolution before your first Communion. 
 Oh, do come if you can, beloved Pauline ! Come and see her in 
 the strength of her faith, hope, and love. She is very calm. 
 She speaks of their approaching separation as she would if Albert 
 was only going to leave her for a long journey. Let us pray and 
 love more and more. I will write to you every day, if only a 
 line. Good-bye, dear angel. May God be in our hearts, and 
 fasliion them according to His will ! ' 
 
 ' June 3rd, 12 o'clock at; night. 
 ' Dear Love, — My letter went this morning, and to-night I 
 am beginning again. The Archbishop has given leave for Mass 
 to be said at twelve o'clock at night, in Albert's room, so that 
 he may go to Communion fasting ; otherwise, in order to com- 
 municate at the same Mass as Alexandrine, he would have had 
 to receive as Viaticum, as he could not remain without food till 
 morning, and this would have been too sad for them. But can 
 you picture to yourself anything sweeter, more solemn, and more 
 sad, than this Communion in his room at midnight, with the little 
 Altar dressed w^ith lights and flowers ? Alexandrine will then 
 make her first Communion, and Albert — perhaps his last !' 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 227 
 
 ' June -itli. — We are expecting the Abbe Gerbet. Alexandrine 
 will confess, and receive absolution. The Abbe Dupanloup* is 
 coming to hear Albert's confession, and we are all going to 
 church for that intention. Then this evening, my father and 
 mother, Albert, Alexandrine, Olga, and I, shall all communicate 
 together. Ah ! dearest Pauline, we shall miss you too much ! 
 Oh^ if I could make certain of never being separated from Alex- 
 andrine ! People are so foolish, they will say that it was not a 
 sufficient object for life. I should be told that I must have 
 something more definite to live for. Is it not, then, a sufiicient 
 object to devote one's self, one's time, one's care, and one's whole 
 life to a friend, to a beloved sister ? It is done every day for a 
 husband, for whom in very many cases much less love is felt.' 
 
 alexandrine's journal. 
 
 ' June 4th (same day). — Before going to confession to the 
 Abbe Gerbet, I had been reading to Albert, and in one of the 
 reflections added to dkch chapter of the Imitation of Christ, 
 I found these words : " Love is stronger than Death.'' Those 
 words raised my courage. " Love is stronger than Death," — I 
 thank Thee, my God, for that word ! It is a great gift, and how 
 can I be wanting in faith, when Thou hast answered my prayer, 
 by showing me the strength of my love. Those dreadful mis- 
 givings were mere temptations ; and now, filled with a sweet and 
 triumphant joy, I am ready to go down with him into the Valley 
 of Death, which till now I have ever feared. ! my God, let 
 me never be divided from him ! Never ! never ! He has need 
 of me, and I can bear to leave everything on earth. 
 
 ' My gentle husband, who loved me so much before thy 
 sufferings began, do not be afraid of my leaving you when your 
 last sufferings approach. God will not refuse me the grace to be 
 with you in that hour, and then your agony will be a little 
 softened by my presence. Oh, do not fear that I shall move 
 from your side. Do not look at me with your beautiful eyes, 
 as if you thought I was going away. I will hold you in my 
 arms, even if my heart should break vrith the anguish of seeing 
 you die. My arms shall clasp you, my eyes will foUow you, and 
 yours to the very last shall behold me there. 
 
 ' And now, my God, as Thou wilt, whatever Thou wiliest, and 
 when Thou wiliest, I am ready to die, ready to live, so that I am 
 with him. But if I must live on earth without him, I will not 
 refuse to be comforted. Let it be as Thou wiliest, my God \ but 
 
 * Now the Bishop of Orleans. 
 
 Q 2 
 
228 A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 save me from sin and remorse. My God ! my Jesus ! give me 
 but faith — a true, living faith. I ask for nothing, and I ask for 
 
 all things. Amen When I left Albert to go to confession, 
 
 I begged him to forgive me for all I had ever done to displease 
 him. He answered me so tenderly, so humbly ! In the evening 
 the doctor came ; I was putting on a white dress for my first 
 Communion, and I told Eugenie to follow him down stairs, and 
 ask if Albert was in danger of dying that very night. He 
 answered " Yes." But at that moment I did not feel anything 
 as usual, for I seemed to be lifted up above this world, and 
 Eugenie the same. I quietly put on a white muslin gown, and 
 on my head a veil — even my wedding veil ! I had for the first 
 time a true feeling of contrition, as I sat all in white in Albert's 
 room, reading aloud to him and Eugenie, a chapter of the 
 Imitation; I told her what I felt. She bade me to have no 
 fears, and that my soul was really pure and white, as I had 
 just received absolution. 
 
 ' Albert was in bed — he had not been able to sit up at all. I 
 knelt down by him, and held his hand, whilst the Abbe Gerbet 
 began his Mass. I did not know where I was, or what was 
 passing, but soon Albert made me let go his hand — the hand 
 which I had looked upon as something so sacred, that even at 
 the most solemn moment of my life I could not be offending 
 G-od to hold him. But he made me let him go, and said, " Go, 
 go ; think now only of God." The Abbe Gerbet addressed a 
 few words to me before giving me Communion, and afterwards 
 he gave it to Albert. I then took his beloved hand once more, 
 for I almost thought he was going to die that night.' 
 
 The next day Alexandrine wrote in her Journal, — 
 
 ' I was at High Mass at S. Sulpice. It was Corpus Christi. 
 Everything was lovely ; the hymns, the swinging thuribles of 
 incense, the flowers scattered before the B. Sacrament. Eugenie 
 whispered to me to look round the church, but I bent down my 
 head, and felt again that deep contrition and sorrow for my sins 
 w^hich I had had the day before. Before my conversion, I had 
 so often earnestly prayed in that church : " ! grant me one 
 moment of faith, hope, and love, and then welcome death !" 
 Eor I had not faith at that time, I only longed for it. 
 
 ' June 5th. — For the first and last time to receive Communion 
 with Albert — he for the last, I for the first time ! Our union 
 made perfect only then to be broken. ! my God, it matters not 
 in what way Thou givest us what we both asked. We can only 
 thank Thee for what Thou didst vouchsafe to bestow. 
 
 ' What does the world, that condemns religious enthusiasm, 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 229 
 
 and looks ripoii it as a misfortune, give as comfort to the 
 suffering ; and does not prudence alone suggest the wisdom of 
 making some little provision against the innumerable sorrows of 
 life ? Foolish, beyond measure ; foolish world ! It finds fault 
 with those who love God too much, and, alas ! it is easy to 
 understand why He is loved too little, but to say He can be 
 loved too much is a folly bordering on madness. 
 
 ' June 8th. — Albert seemed to think for one moment that I 
 was not quite so much occupied about him as usual, and when 
 he saw that this had made me shed tears, he was so grieved that 
 he asked me most tenderly to forgive him, and then said to 
 Eugenie and me ; " I have been very wicked — I was jealous of 
 God!" 
 
 * my God — my God ! just now I thought I should like to 
 yield up my life in one deep sigh, a sigh as deep as my sorrow. 
 Poor wretched me ! I did not ask to be happy. All I prayed for 
 was freedom from remorse, never to give pain to any one, and 
 now my husband causes me again these two tortures, which I 
 have not courage to endure. I have grieved Albert, and I 
 reproach myself for it. Alas ! it is utterly true, I am not a good 
 nurse — not to be compared with Eugenie. When he saw my 
 tears it gave him pain, and, dearest love, he asked me to forgive 
 him ! He said he had been " jealous of God." Yes, I have 
 indeed neglected him, I have left him too much to Eugenie. 
 Oh, to atone for this neglect let him behold me when in Heaven 
 dying of grief at his loss ! May he never, either here or here- 
 after, have cause to be jealous, no, not even of Thee, my God ! 
 My head has been very weary of late, worn out with thoughts, 
 and now it positively aches with them. ! for light and peace !' 
 
 That day Alexandrine sold her pearl necklace* and then wrote 
 the following lines — 
 
 ' Perles ! symbole de larmes ! 
 Perles ! larmes de la mer. 
 Recueillies avec larmes au fond de ses abimes. 
 Portees souvent avec larmes au milieu des plaisirs du monde. 
 Quittees aujourd'hui avec larmes dans la plus grande des douleurs terrestres : 
 Allez enfin secher des larmes, en vous changeant en pain.'f 
 
 * The sale of this beautiful pearl necklace was the beginning of that com- 
 plete surrender she eventually made of all she possessed to the poor. 
 
 f The following beautiful free translation of Alexandrine's lines appeared in 
 the Month, and has been kindly allowed by the Editor to be inserted here : — 
 
 ' Pearls by nature wrought to be 
 
 Symbols of the tears we shed — 
 Tear-drops of the moaning sea 
 
 Rain'd upon his rocking bod, 
 Snatch' d with tears from ocean's treasiires, 
 Worn with tears 'mid worldly pleasures. 
 
230 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 ALEXANDRINE S JOURNAL. 
 
 ' [In the night] the-Sth of June. 
 
 ' Am I deceiving myself ? Do I really wish to have nothing 
 more to do with earthly joys and delights ? Do I care for 
 nothing but faith and peace of conscience ? Shall I be able 
 quite to forget that such a thing exists as love and all its 
 delightful visions ? After all, is not the perfection of love to 
 be found in God, and that without any fear of change or disap- 
 pointment ? And have I not been thinking for a long time past 
 that all earthly love is but a ray diverging from its true centre ? 
 Will not the best and highest of all love suffice me ? I some- 
 times hope so, for though my heart is not on fire with that love 
 like Eugenie's, I see signs in myself of its beginning. I 
 cannot endure to see Grod insulted, or even neglected. And then 
 I do not care now for any books but such as speak of Him. I 
 was writing this when Pauline, whom I had not seen since we 
 parted at Naples in the Palazzo Gallo, arrived.' 
 
 I shall never forget the suffering of that moment of our 
 waiting in the street for the gate to be opened, and then for the 
 answer to my husband's question, which I did not dare to utter 
 myself. Twelve o'clock struck at that moment ; I counted the 
 strokes almost unconsciously. ' Are we in time ?' I gasped. 
 * Yes, and he is a little better since the morning,' was the reply. 
 I rushed upstairs, and almost immediately into his room, for he 
 was not asleep. Falling on his neck, I heard the sound of his 
 sweet, feeble voice saying : ' My own Pauline !' And yet — and 
 yet — I was not present at his death ! 
 
 One of those sudden treacherous gleams of recovery which 
 occur in consumption, took place just at the time of our arrival, 
 and lasted during the few days we remained in Paris. ^ It did 
 not of course lead us to hope for his eventual recovery, but it 
 held out a possibility of remo\^ng him to Boury, where he 
 earnestly wished to go. When the time had elapsed, therefore, 
 which my husband could spend in France, we went away. 
 
 Darkest depths of human woe, 
 
 Close around my shattered heart. 
 Tears have flow'd, and tears must flow — 
 
 So in tears I bid you part : 
 That some fewer tears be shed, 
 Go and change yourselves to bread !' 
 
 The Month, November, 1866. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 2S1 
 
 It is only now, as I am looking over these letters and papers, 
 that I am able to discern the consolation, and, if I may so speak, 
 the hidden meaning of that absence which at the time materially 
 added to my sorrow. But owing to my not being there, my 
 sisters regularly wrote a full account of all that followed, as they 
 had already done before my arrival. Had I been present, neither 
 those letters would have been written, nor the daily journal have 
 been so carefully kept ; for it was for my sake that everything 
 was so minutely recorded. 
 
 The effect produced upon me by all I saw and heard at that 
 time, by the change which grief and faith have wrought in 
 Alexandrine, by the manner in which Eugenie shared that grief 
 and strengthened that faith, was to me strange and unlocked for. 
 It was the first time I had ever been brought into close contact 
 with sorrow and death; and though, humanly speaking, it was 
 impossible to witness anything more heart-breaking, yet, strange 
 as it may seem, these things left upon me an impression of hap- 
 piness to which earthly joys seemed the vainest dreams. 
 
 Eugenie and Alexandrine were lifted above the world during 
 those sorrowful days, and, as the Abbe Gerbet said, ' It seemed 
 as if the veil which separates the visible from the invisible world 
 was withdrawn, and they were given a momentary foretaste of the 
 realities which no human happiness can afford.' 
 
 And now, in transcribing Alexandrine's touching soliloquies 
 and prayers, where memory conjures up her image as I beheld 
 her at that time, on the eve of her final trial, when she was 
 already beginning to practise that entire detachment which in 
 the end became so fulfilled ; when I think that this dream of 
 earthly sorrow is past, that as truly as I yet live, she has reached 
 the long-wished-for haven, that she is with Albert, never to part 
 again ; that they are in the full enjoyment of that bliss of which 
 she speaks, where all life's sufferings, seen from the heights of 
 Eternal Blessedness, are as nothing — now I deeply feel how 
 selfish it would be not to bear their loss, and all other sorrows of 
 this life, with the patience which such examples and lessons more 
 enforce upon me than upon those never so marvellously blessed. 
 But I must now return to the battle sl^e had yet to wage, and 
 which, although lightened by Divine grace, was one of the 
 hardest ever fought on earth. 
 
 alexandrine's journal. 
 
 * June 16tb. 
 
 * My own Albert ! my dearest love ! I now may no longer 
 say to you, " Do you remember our happy days ? " Happy 
 
232 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 days ! No, rather those few joyous hours, when I used to dress 
 and strive to look well in order to please you; when, in the mid- 
 dle of a crowd, we felt so intimately united ; or those other 
 more precious hours when we were alone, far from the world. 
 Light of heart, and forgetting sorrow, we have sometimes even 
 danced together ; and now, overwhelmed with sufferings, you lie 
 on your death-bed. God be praised that I am here too ; and 
 that, as I have shared your joys, I share your anguish as well. 
 And if I had had to choose between them, it is the anguish I 
 should have claimed. The great love of my life has proved a 
 virtue, O ! my God, for it has led me to Thee ; and if it has also 
 been the source of sorrow, how can I complain ? for perhaps it 
 has opened to me the way to Heaven. And then, how do I know 
 what is worked in the secret councils of God ? How can I be 
 sure that the earnest prayer to suffer instead of my father, which 
 I have constantly made since his death, has not been heard, and 
 that he may be the happier for all I have endured. Oh ! that 
 my sufferings may have availed him ! . . . It was after writing 
 this, I think, that with a full heart I bent over Albert, and mur- 
 mured, ^^ Do you remember f — I was going to say ^^our liainyy 
 days ; " he stopped me, and said gently, " Those were other times.'" 
 Ah! nothing less than this affliction would have sunk deeply 
 into my heart, and given a mortal blow to my inveterate 
 fiivolity.' 
 
 THE ABB^ GEEBET TO ALEXANDRINE. 
 
 'Thieux, June 16th. 
 
 ' I am struck with the two-fold mark with which God has 
 stamped this epoch of your life. SuflPering and faith — two of the 
 most important circumstances of life — have influenced you at the 
 same moment. With the Cross in your hand, you have made 
 your first Communion ; and there is a holy and a Providential 
 mystery in this, of whose meaning and end you will fully discern 
 by-and-bye. Meantime, continue to correspond with God's grace 
 in studying the lesson set before you, which is how to sanctify 
 your sufierings. Do not disturb yourself by aiming at other 
 degrees of devotion, which will follow in due time. Do not be 
 over-anxious to change everything in yourself which seems to need 
 improvement, all at once. Your great perfection just now lies in 
 suffering well. Do that, and then one day other graces will be 
 given to you. 
 
 'L'Abb^ Ph.-Gerbet.' 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 ALEXANDEINE S JOURNAL. 
 
 'JiinelTth. 
 
 ' ! Eternal Beauty, Youth, and Love ; Thee only will I 
 love ; by Thee alone will I seek to be loved ; for in Thee is 
 neither decay nor anything wanting. Thee, then, will I serve, 
 for Thou alone art worthy of my service. Alas ! I think these 
 things, but my heart does not feed on them. One part of my 
 soul utters them, and another disowns them again. There is a 
 voice within me crying out that it is folly and baseness to seek 
 anything but God ; and another voice whispers, " No matter ; I 
 do not care for holiness ; I do not wish to be a Saint, for these 
 things would weary me. Perfection and eternity are too high, 
 too far away, too incomprehensible for me ; I have no thirst for 
 them. Give me what is wanting still — feed me with change 
 and decay." ! ye holy inhabitants of Heaven, pray that I 
 may not be guilty of the inconceivable folly of choosing evil, 
 knowing it to be evil, and casting away what is good, acknow- 
 ledging it to be such ! What should we think of a man who, 
 seeing poison before him, and dreading its baneful effects, should 
 nevertheless swallow it ? ' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' June 20fch. 
 
 ^ Pace sia eon noi [Peace be with us]. Poor, dear, beloved 
 darling, so you are gone ; everything passes away so quickly ! 
 It was so nice to have you. We both miss you very much, and 
 when we are here together, it makes us feel only the more deeply 
 how indispensable and precious is the third member of our sister- 
 hood. Nothing has happened since your departure. Albert said 
 to me just now, " If you are writing to Pauline, send her a kiss 
 for me." ' 
 
 Amongst their visitors at that sad time, was one person who, 
 little aware of the wonderful strength which religion afforded to 
 Eugenie and Alexandrine, deemed their piety an excess of reli- 
 gious enthusiasm, which ought to be combated. This was 
 repeated to them, and Alexandrine immediately wrote a letter, 
 which contained the following passage : — 
 
 •■ ALEXANDRINE TO . 
 
 * June 24th. 
 
 * Allow me to defend what is now my only source of happiness, 
 for although I cannot compare my feelings with Eugenie's angelic 
 ones, nevertheless I have enough of that religious enthusiasm 
 
234 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 which yon condemn, to snpport me in my grief. What is reH- 
 gious enthusiasm P It is something that raises one above this 
 earth ; Hfts us up to Heaven, and helps us to realize true blessed- 
 ness, and eternity itself. My dear friend, can that support which 
 makes me bear such a sorrow as mine, and would make me bear 
 anything, which, as you know, has helped men to endure the 
 most dreadful torments, not only with courage, but with joy; can 
 this be looked upon as a pitiable thing ? And can we feel afraid 
 to see them we love armed with so strong a shield against every 
 kind of evil ? Really, those who take such a view must be very 
 strange people, and when any external evil falls npon those who so 
 judge, or perhaps at the hour of death, I am sure they will feel a 
 vague, perhaps unacknowledged regret, that they do not possess 
 this religious enthusiasm, which makes all blows light, and fills 
 every circumstance with hope. 
 
 ' To condemn religious enthusiasm is, in other words, to 
 condemn a too great love of God. And now only tell me if 
 you really think one can love God too much ? All I can say 
 is, that if it is a kind of insanity, it is a beautiful and wise one.' 
 
 alexandrine's journal. 
 
 * One of these latter days, Albert suddenly threw his arm round 
 m.e, and exclaimed : '' I am going to die, and we might have heen so 
 happy .^" O ! my God, I felt then as if my heart would really 
 break.' 
 
 ' June 26th. — Before Mass, which was again said at twelve 
 o'clock at night in his room, Albert looked at me a long time, 
 and then said with deep feeling, " God bless you ! " Then he 
 made the sign of the Cross on my forehead, and added, " And 
 God bless your mother, too." After a while he said: " Good- 
 bye." I seemed surprised, and perhaps frightened, and then he 
 said " Good-night," as if to change the sad meaning of the word 
 he had used. And all the while I wished so much to speak 
 openly to him of his death. It was I, perhaps, who prevelited it, 
 by my fear of exciting him. 
 
 ' During that last Mass, every time that I looked at him, he 
 made me a sign to look at the Altar, The window was open, but 
 the night was quite dark. At the moment of Communion the 
 Abbe Martin de Noirlieu and Albert's father, who was serving 
 Mass, came up to him. The Abbe gave one half of the Sacred 
 Host to him, and the other to me. Even in this solemn moment 
 there was something very sweet to me in this. Albert could not 
 open his lips without much suffering — it was for this reason that 
 the Abbe Martin had divided the Host ; but even so, he had some 
 
A SISTER' 8 STORY. 235 
 
 difficulty in swallowing, and thej were obliged to give him some 
 water. This disturbed him, but the Abbe Gerbet — who was 
 present — assured him it did not signify. Then Albert exclaimed : 
 " My Grod ! Thy will be done ! " ! my Grod, this thanksgiving 
 of his must, I think, have been pleasing to Thee ! 
 
 ' Before Mass he had said to the Abbe Martin, who was speak- 
 ing to him of his sufferings, " The only thing I ask of God now, 
 is strength to fulfil my sacrifice." " You are nailed to the Cross 
 with our Lord Jesus Christ," the Abbe said, and Albert answered 
 in a very sweet and humble way, " Ah ! but I am such a miserable 
 sinner! " The Altar had a blue silk frontal, and was dressed 
 with flowers. It was Eugenie who had arranged it. The blue 
 silk was one of my trousseau dresses that had never been made 
 up, and now was applied to this use.' 
 
 ' June 27th. — Albert was light-headed ; was continually talking 
 of going into the country, and pointing to me, cried, " She is 
 coming with me ! She is coming with me ! " [I was in the 
 habit of writing down every word he said on these latter days of 
 his life, and these words — ' she is coming with me ' — were the last 
 I wrote.] 
 
 'After dinner that same day, we were sitting by his side, 
 without speaking. Eugenie bent over him, and gently suggested 
 his receiving Extreme Unction. His countenance did not change 
 in the least. He said gently and quite quietly, " Will it not be 
 taking advantage of the graces the Church bestows to receive 
 it yet ? " 
 
 ' He was anointed, however, that same evening, and during the 
 whole time I was standing near him, with my hand on his right 
 shoulder. Eugenie was on the other side of me, An explanation 
 of this Sacrament, which we had read together in our happy 
 days, made me understand all that was going on. The thought 
 flashed through me with a wild feeling of grief, " What, must 
 his soul be purified even of its ardent love for me ? Must that, 
 too, be destroyed ? " But I did not shed a single tear. His own 
 wonderful calm was so holy. 
 
 ' When it was over, Albert made a little sign of the Cross on 
 the Abbe Dupanloup's forehead, who received it with respect, 
 and affectionately embraced him. Then I approached, feeling 
 that it was my turn to receive that dear sign of the Cross, which 
 was a sweet habit of happier days. He kissed me, his parents, 
 Eugenie, Fernand, Montal, and then Julian (his servant), who 
 was weeping bitterly. When it came to that, Albert burst into 
 tears, and that was more than I could bear, but he quickly 
 recovered fortitude, when I kissed him again, and beckoned to 
 the Sister, whom he would not leave out in this tender and 
 
236 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 general leave-taking, but with his delicate sense of what was 
 befitting, and in token of gratitude, he kissed the hand which had 
 ministered to him, in spite of her resistance. 
 
 ' M. I'Abbe Dupanloup, who gave him Extreme Unction, had 
 prepared him for his first Communion, and never forgot the 
 edification it had given him at that time to find Albert on his 
 knees praying in the same place where he had left him three 
 hours before, in the church of S. Sulpice — that church in which 
 his beloved remains were so soon to be deposited. 
 
 ' I sat down by his side. He was asleep, and I held his hand 
 in mine, while Eugenie was writing the following lines to 
 PauKne : — 
 
 ' " Oh ! Pauline, what a night has this been ! and yet not ter- 
 rible, — no, a most blessed night. Albert has just received 
 Extreme Unction. What wonderful graces God bestows; but 
 why were you not here to receive that dear angel's blessing, who, 
 fitter for Heaven than ourselves, is going before us there . . . ." 
 After relating all that has been mentioned, she adds : " Pauline, 
 I could not have conceived anything more touching, more holy, 
 more soothing, or a more Heavenly peace. I bless God that 
 nothing in all this time has troubled my notions of happiness in 
 death." ' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO THE ABB^ GERBET. 
 
 ' The same day. 
 
 * I should feel it a great mercy if you could come, but I am, 
 however, perfectly composed. I entreat you continue your 
 prayers for me, for I can no longer pray for myself. I can only 
 think of God, and remind Him that I asked for faith in exchange 
 for happiness. ' Alexandrine.' 
 
 alexandrine's journal. 
 
 ' June 28th. — To-night I called Albert's attention to the rising 
 moon. I thought it had the lurid aspect which once before I saw 
 at Rome, when I thought he was dying at Civita Vecchia. 
 
 ' The window was open. We looked on the fine trees of the 
 Luxembourg, and the perfume of the honeysuckles and many 
 flowers was sometimes almost too powerful on the night air. 
 
 ' Montal came in later, and brought me Albert's letters to him, 
 which I had asked for. It was as if a dagger had been driven 
 into my heart. Still I immediately began to read those pages, 
 which, though heart-rending, were very sweet. 
 
 ' The Abbe Martin gave Albert absolution and the Plenary 
 Indulgence for the night. I was kneeling by his side, and said to 
 him afterwards, "Do kiss me." He raised his feeble head, put 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 237 
 
 up his lips, and kissed me. Then I asked him to let me kiss his 
 eyes. He shut them in token of assent. 
 
 ' Later still, feeling unable any longer to forbear pouring my 
 whole heart into his, and longing to take advantage of the few 
 moments yet remaining to ns of life, I said to him : " Albert, 
 Montal has brought me your letters. They comfort me very 
 much" ..." Stop ! " he cried, feebly. " Stop ! I cannot bear 
 it — it troubles me ! " — " Oh ! Albert ! I worship you ! " — The cry 
 burst forth in the anguish of not being able to speak to him, for 
 the fear of troubling his soul forced me to be silent ; but those 
 were the last words of my love for him that my lips ever uttered, 
 and he heard them, as he had asked — even as he lay dying. 
 
 ' ! my God ! Whom alone I now worship. Thou hast for- 
 given me for that rash word, which I never again shall use but to 
 Thee, but which 1 cannot help being glad — and Thou wilt pardon 
 my weakness — to have said to my poor dying love. 
 
 ' I wanted to sit up, but from grief and want of sleep my head 
 was confused and wandered so much that I thought I was speak- 
 ing to Fernand at the window, when he was not even there. 
 Then I became afraid of losing my senses, and Eugenie forced 
 me to lie down on the bed. I trusted more to her than any one 
 else to waken me in time. Already, once or twice, I had expe- 
 rienced that terrible feeling when roused from sleep, of thinking 
 that the dreadful moment was come. I was resolved at any cost 
 to be there. 
 
 ' At about three o'clock in the morning, the 29th of June, I 
 saw Eugenie at my bedside, and was terrified, but she calmed 
 me, and said that Albert had asked " Where is Alex ? " " Do 
 you want her ? " Eugenie had said. " Of course I want her," he 
 replied, and then began to wander again. I behaved as if I had 
 lost my senses. I passed twice before Albert's bed, and then 
 went into the next room, not the least knowing what I was about. 
 
 ' Eugenie came in, holding clasped in her hands the Crucifi a 
 indulgenced for the hour of death, which the Abbe Dupanloup 
 had lent her. She appeared then as a meek Angel of Death, for 
 that Crucifix was a sign that the end drew near. Albert saw it, 
 seized it himself, kissed it fervently, and exclaimed : "I thank 
 Thee, my God ! " After that he became quite calm. 
 
 ' They changed his position, and turned his head towards the 
 rising sun. He had fallen into a kind of sleep, with his beloved 
 head resting on my left arm. I was standing and afraid of slip- 
 ping from my place. The Sister wanted to relieve me, but 
 Eugenie told her not to do so, and that I was glad to be there. 
 When Albert awoke, he spake in his usual voice, and in quite a 
 natural way, to Fernand * * # # * * * 
 
238 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 ' At six o'clock he was then lying in an arm-chair near the 
 ■window — I saw and knew that the moment was come . . . Then 
 I felt so great a strength pass into me, that nothing could have 
 driven me from my place as I knelt by his side. My sister 
 Eugenie was close to me. 
 
 ' His father was kneeling on the other side. His poor mother 
 stood leaning over him ; the Abbe Martin by her side. ! my 
 God! 
 
 ' No one spoke except his father, and each one of his words 
 were words of blessing, the worthiest that conld accompany the 
 dying agony of a son. " My child, Avho has never caused us pain 
 — the very best of sons, we bless you. Do you hear me still, my 
 child ? You are looking at your Alexandrine " — his dying eyes 
 had turned towards me, — " and you bless her also." The Sister 
 began to say the Litany for the Agonizing. And I — his wife — 
 felt what I could never have conceived ; I felt that death was 
 blessed, and I said in my heart, " Now, ! Lord Jesus, he is in 
 Paradise ! " The Abbe Martin began to give the last absolution, 
 and Albert's soul took flight before it was over.' 
 
 Alexandrine's story is ended, that is to say, the period she thus 
 designated, and of which she wished to keep a record. From 
 that day she no longer cared to preserve the memory of the events 
 of her life. And I, too, must pause awhile, for the recollections 
 awakened by the last pages are too harrowing to allow me to con- 
 tinue this narrative now. But before I conclude this portion of 
 my task, I will add to it the following letter, for it was a few 
 hours after the fulfilment of her sacrifice that Alexandrine had 
 the strength to write it. 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO THE ABB!^ GERBET. 
 
 ' Monsieur, a few hours ago Albert left me. His end was very 
 sweet, and he died leaning upon me. One of my greatest desires 
 has been fulfilled, the greatest of all is not yet accomplished. 
 Faith, such as I covet it, is at present no more than as a vast hope 
 in my soul ; but I have a very sweet hope for my Albert, who 
 offended God very little whilst he lived, and loved him above all 
 things. During that last Mass you said for Him, whenever I 
 looked at him, he made a sign to me to look at the Altar. He 
 would not have loved me as he did, if he had not loved God a 
 great deal more. But certainly, after God, that beloved one 
 loved me best of all, and this was my greatest happiness on earth. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 239 
 
 And now help me to be united with him in the happiness of 
 Heaven. 
 
 ' My loss is immense — but not so my grief — for hope is at the 
 bottom of that, and rises ever more and more in my soul. Would 
 it not be great ingratitude in me to question God's boundless 
 love, since in the midst of all these earthly sufferings, the neces- 
 sity of which I do not yet understand. He has granted me what 
 I most desired. For it was not Albert's life I most desired, but 
 to be united with him for eternity ; to love God, and in the same 
 way as he did; to have been loved by him, and to have loved 
 him as much as it is possible to love in this imperfect world ; 
 and also that his death should be sweet, his last glance rest 
 on me, and that he should discern in his last moments that I 
 was beholding him die without any fears about his eternal state. 
 
 ' It would indeed have been sweet to spend my life with him ; 
 but when once we believe in Heaven, we cannot grieve so much 
 to see those we love sooner happy than ourselves. 
 
 ' I need not say how much I long to see you ; I am sure you 
 pray, and will continue to pray for me. I believe it is to those 
 prayers I partly owe the strength I have been blest with. May 
 God reward you for all the good you have done to me.' 
 
 In the night which followed that day of sorrow and of mercy, 
 Alexandrine also wrote these lines : — ' Albert, my Albert ! beloved 
 one, you have left me. My friend, my brother, my husband, I 
 must now learn to live without' you. I bless God that I feel the 
 full extent of my loss, and that I now know how I love and have 
 always loved you ! Yes, I feel deeply that you were everything 
 to me on earth. I know well my own unworthiness, but still I 
 did love and appreciate you well, and more than ever do I love 
 you now. Your noble character, your charming qualities, your 
 loyal tender heart. 0, my own dear and modest Albert, at last 
 in the Home of the Blessed, you will know your own worth and 
 the intensity of my love. If I had not been with you when you 
 died — always my terrible fear — I should have thought God had 
 forsaken me. But He mercifully granted that the sleep which 
 leads to endless happiness should overtake you whilst resting 
 upon me, with your hand clasped in mine, and with the last look 
 of your dear eyes fixed upon me. As long as a shade of conscious- 
 ness remained, you felt a sort of sweetness in knowing that I was 
 there, and feeling that my arms were bearing you up. 
 
 ' Oh, blessed and eternal union ! My God, I thank Thee that 
 Thou hast given me to enjoy such exceeding happiness, and 
 that my hfehas been thus blessed. 0, my sweet Jesus ! I have 
 given up to Thee my happiness. Give me instead Thy gift of faith.' 
 
240 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 Alexandrine did not leave off writing in her Journal during the 
 heart-breaking days which ensued, but for the present I shall 
 close the record with the following words, which seem to sum up, 
 as it were, both the love and sorrow of this portion of her life, 
 together with the immortal hope with which both were crowned. 
 They were written a week after Albert died. 
 
 ' July 6th, 1836. 
 
 ' 0, my God ! Do not put asunder what Thou Thyself hast 
 joined together. Pardon my boldness, and do Thou, my 
 Father who art in Heaven, let me bring before Thee that we 
 never ceased to bear Thee in mind. That we never wrote to each 
 other even a httle love-letter without naming Thy Name and in- 
 voking Thy blessing upon us. Remember that we continually 
 prayed to Thee together, and that we always besought Thee that 
 our love might be eternal in Heaven.' 
 
PART III. 
 
 ' Far5 come colui che piange e dice.' — Dante. 
 
 HOSE who have read the preceding part of this story, 
 will scarcely wonder that I could not for a while 
 summon up courage to continue my sweet but painful 
 task. In fact, its last pages awoke such poignant 
 recollections, that it was a long time before I could 
 get over their effects. And then Alexandrine's manuscript had 
 come to an end, and I felt disinclined to carry on a record which 
 had borrowed both Hght and colouring from it. Energy and 
 talent seemed equally wanting for the work, and for some years 
 it remained untouched. Yet Alexandrine's story was far from 
 being ended. She had herself related the details of her earthly 
 happiness from the day of her first meeting with Albert up to his 
 death. But from this time forward a new life began for her, 
 fruitful in merit as well as in happiness. It was useful and 
 desirable to reveal the mystery of this supernatural happiness, 
 and the latter part of her life was therefore necessary to complete 
 the first. 
 
 There were also two other characters in this Sister's Story, 
 which live in my remembrance side by side with those of Albert 
 and Alexandrine. The record of their brief lives remained also 
 unfinished, and therefore, sooner or later, it was incumbent upon 
 me to set to work again, and at the end of four years I made the 
 attempt, but it was only to find that the effort was beyond my 
 power, and my health broke down under it. I was forced to lay 
 down my pen and interrupt an occupation which affected me too 
 deeply, and which, though soothing in one sense, was too trying 
 to a sore heart. 
 
 Six years have now elapsed, and though the feelings I have 
 described are but little altered, I will nevertheless, with God's 
 help, endeavour to overcome them, and pursue my labour to the 
 end. But some will ask why the effort should be made. Is this 
 record so important to complete ? I have often asked myself the 
 same question, and I will humbly and simply reply that I do 
 think it important to finish what I have begun. I am sure that 
 many of those who have followed Alexandrine up to the time 
 when her life was so sadly blighted, will like to know what God 
 
 K 
 
242 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 did with that bhghted life. I think that the ghmpses which have 
 been given of Eugenie and of Olga, will excite in some of my 
 readers a wish to hear more about them. Above all, I believe 
 that the latter part of this story, though possessing none of the 
 romantic interest and varied incidents of the former, will contain 
 even more useful lessons, deeper solace, and examples such as are 
 good for every one of us to study. 
 
 I therefore take up the thread of the narrative at the time imme- 
 diately succeeding the days which followed Albert's death, and I 
 carry my readers with me to the Chateau de Boury, where Alexan- 
 drine spent the autumn of 1836, with the relations and friends who 
 surrounded her during the early days of her sorrow. It was in 
 that depressing place, in that chateau, gloomy at all times, that 
 almost everything took place which I am about to relate, for, by 
 a singular coincidence, being purchased by my family the year of 
 Alexandrine's marriage, it passed into other hands the year of her 
 death, my mother dying also about the same time. Indeed, so 
 many sad events were crowded into the short space of time when 
 this property belonged to us, that I have often thought the term 
 applied in Italy to places and persons deemed waluckj—(Jettato, 
 Jettatura)* — might have been used with regard to Boury. Long 
 before half of these sorrows had befallen, we find Eugenie employ- 
 ing this word in one of her letters. And later on, when, on re- 
 turning to France, I missed another beloved face from the home 
 circle, and found one more tomb in the churchyard, I could not 
 help thinking and saying that the place was fatal to us. But this 
 was an unreasonable and an ungrateful thought, for if that period 
 was marked by many unhappy days, there were others whose 
 remembrance must always be most dear to me. 
 
 Since 1836, sorrow had become inseparably united with the 
 lives of those who retired to Boury as to a refuge, but from 
 the earliest moment this deep sorrow was allied with peace, 
 charity, and hours of absorbing study. It was sweetened by the 
 mutual affection of hearts devoted to God and to one another, and 
 hallowed by calm resignation, and joyful anticipations- Nothing 
 harsh or austere met the eyes of those who visited this retreat; 
 that unaffected gaiety which proceeds from purity of heart and 
 innocence of life, the true sunshine of the peaceful soul, sui-vived 
 every storm, and was always to be found there. For my own 
 part, I can never forget the inexpressible comfort of arriving 
 there, from those other lands and the busy world in which I 
 habitually lived, and of getting back into that pure atmosphere 
 of loving kindness and religion; of resting in a place where life 
 
 * Doomed, having an evil-eye cast upon them. 
 
A SISTER'S STOUT. 243 
 
 was so regular and active, though quiet, and at the same time 
 where the subjects and the questions which agitated the world 
 were freely admitted and discussed, as far as they were really of 
 interest. 
 
 Even now, as I write, the shadow of the past rises before me ; 
 the pain I felt in returning to my tale vanishes before the gentle 
 vision, and the bitterness of regret gives way to the more soothing 
 feolings with which I formerly began this record. I hope to 
 finish it, therefore, with a peaceful heart, aided, it may be, by 
 those dear ones who, from their home in Heaven, would not that 
 1 should daiken by gloomy thoughts the light of their past lives, 
 or the brightness of their present joys. 
 
 Per Crucem ad Lucent. 
 
 When her long-dreaded sorrow came upon Alexandrine she 
 was strengthened to bear it in a way which seemed almost super- 
 natural, and which lasted during the first hours which followed 
 Albert's death. What she wrote on that day has been already 
 seen. She had courage to stay beside her husband's cofiin, and 
 to follow his beloved remains to the church, and the grave. A 
 powerful and Divine energy sustained her, beyond what could 
 have been hoped or expected beforehand. But it would be a 
 delusion to suppose that we can fly from suffering, even under 
 the mighty influence of faith and the love of God. Sorrow is, 
 indeed, tempered by these feelings, but they do not destroy it ; 
 and it often happens that the grace which in any great affliction 
 raises the soul at flrst above itself, seems to be afterwards pur- 
 posely withdrawn, and we are left to struggle alone against the 
 trial. Thus, the very day of a great trouble is not generally so 
 painful as those that follow afterwards. 
 
 It was so with Alexandrine. We have seen her accept her 
 Cross with wonderful courage. Later on we shall find her carry- 
 ing it with yet more wonderful joy and love. But between 
 these two phases nature resumed for a while her sway, and 
 agonising indeed was the struggle in that warm and tender 
 heart. Overwhelmed by loneliness and grief, she tells us, ' That 
 her strength fails her, and that each day finds her more beaten 
 down than the last.' We shall then see by what efforts of 
 resignation, by what self- surrender she obtained peace, and 
 entered upon that other period of her life which she speaks of in 
 her story, and of which she once said, ' Even before old age and 
 death, faith gave me rest.'' 
 
 R 2 
 
244 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 This rest, which went beyond resignation, even beyond peace, 
 which Alexandrine had soon recovered ; that rest which marked 
 the latter part of her life by a joyousness unknown to her young 
 days, she did not attain till she had gone through many fresh 
 sorrows. It was God's will that she should outlive most of those 
 who had proved her firmest friends and most tender comforters 
 in her widowhood. Almost at one time she lost her own brother, 
 my father, Eugenie, and Olga. It may be that this was allowed, 
 and when after such repeated blows she was still able to say she 
 was happy, no one might mistake the source whence that hap- 
 piness sprang. 
 
 At the opening of this third part of my narrative I have still 
 Alexandrine's journal as a reference, for, as I have already said, 
 she continued to keep it during the days which immediately 
 followed her husband's death. At that time writing was a con- 
 solation and a relief. This was not always the case, and a time 
 will arrive when this resource will fail me, and I can then only 
 depend on God's assistance to help me to convey to others the 
 lessons which Alexandrine unconsciously gave us. And after 
 having been so often delighted with the talent she possessed of 
 describing what took place in her own soul, may it be given to 
 me to feel and to make known that yet rarer and higher gift 
 which ended by destroying every desire to speak of herself, and 
 even that craving to live over again her past life, which at first 
 so entirely engrossed her. 
 
 At this moment her often-quoted Journal lies before me. The 
 following pages, which I had not courage to add before, must 
 now be given, as well as Alexandrine's and Eugenie's letters, so 
 that at present the narrative can be carried on without any 
 labour of my own. I resume the Journal at the point where I 
 broke ofi", that is the 30th of June, 1836, the day after Albert's 
 death. 
 
 alexandrine's journal. . 
 
 * June Both. 
 * Albert, I am writing to you, leaning against your coffin. I 
 am writing, for it is like speaking to you. Albert, do you see 
 me now ? Do you know what I am feeling ? Oh ! this dreadful 
 uncertainty ! Angel of my life, who have now left me to go on 
 my way alone, my greatest virtue, the best thing in me, was my 
 love for you. It is a sweet thought, that my love for you, and 
 yours for me, have made me better, and that I must not lose 
 you for ever. I will now strive to be as good as possible. Our 
 Lord will forgive me if I go to Him through you, my Albert, 
 who went so straight to Him. I felt to-day that I should like to 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 245 
 
 suffer as much as Albert did ; that true love wishes to suffer as 
 much as the object of its affection ; and then I thought that this 
 is the sort of love which the Saints have for Jesus Christ, and 
 that I have no right to that sweet feeling. 
 
 * But ! my compassionate Lord Jesus, Jesus Who wept over 
 the dead, Jesus Who felt all our sorrows, Thou knowest that 
 the more I loved him the more I loved Thee, therefore forbid 
 me not to love him, and that with an immense love ! It is only 
 now that my love has become perfect, for now I love, I am sure 
 of it, a perfect soul. My angel, Albert, pray for me, that I 
 may now doubt no more about my faith; pray for me that I 
 may not sorrow as those unhappy ones who have no hope. Sweet 
 Jesus, I pine more than ever in this sorrowful hour for the day 
 •when there will be nothing but sinlessness and joy ! How often, 
 O, my God ! I was wont to pray that Thou wouldst unite both 
 Albert and me in Thy love. But for some time past I ceased 
 to make this petition. I foresaw, it may be, that we must be 
 separated by that Divine love, which he, being far purer, would 
 attain much sooner. How he loved me ! Is it possible, such a 
 one as I ? ' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 'July 1st, 1836. 
 
 * On the 29th, the day before yesterday, after my letter went, 
 Albert was laid upon his bed. His calm face seemed asleep and 
 at rest after so much suffering and so many wakeful nights. We 
 stayed the whole day in our own room, or else praying by his 
 side. Yesterday the body was laid in the coffin, which we covered 
 with flowers, and the whole room was scented with them. I send 
 you a rose and a little bit of jessamine to put in your Imitatioyi 
 of Christ. We were praying the whole day in that room, and it 
 was sweet to feel he was there. But at last, this morning, they 
 carried him away. Alexandrine and I went to pray by the 
 coffin whilst it stood under the archway, and afterwards, hidden 
 in a corner of S. Sulpice, we were present at the service. As 
 the day of his death recedes, so the remembrance of our beloved 
 brother's sufferings fade away, and that of the joyous time when 
 they were so happy together, becomes more and more vivid. At 
 times Alexandrine feels quite broken-hearted. The feeling of 
 solitude, the thought of a whole life spent alone, takes such 
 strong possession of her, that I fear, my dear Pauline, her dear 
 bereaved life will not be a long one.' 
 
 alexandrine's journal. 
 
 * July 1st, 1836. 
 
 * To-day, hidden in the church, I was present through it all. 
 
246 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 I asked our Lord to grant me in the first place faith, because 
 that includes all ; then to feel that Albert has forgiven me every- 
 thing ; and lastly, to be convinced that I loved him as much as 
 it is possible to love in this earthly frame of clay. I also asked 
 eternal happiness for all those I love and those that Albert loves, 
 and again resumed my ardent prayer, that one day all men may 
 be blessed. I ended by imploring to be as pure and as faithful a 
 widow as ever lived, but without the least pride, and if I can 
 obtain this, I accept all the torments of foolish fears and vain 
 scruples, if only I may live without blame. 
 
 ' My dear love, you rested in my arms during your last earthly 
 sleep, and then afterwards in the sleep of which we know not the 
 end ! God grant that these arms, after my death, may open to 
 you again when we meet in the Bosom of God, in the full joy of 
 eternal union. 0, my God ! the day before yesterday he was 
 still living — I still heard his voice ; and yesterday I could say, 
 " yesterday he was alive." And now it is further away ; and to- 
 morrow I can no longer say, " the day before yesterday,'^ * 
 
 'July 3rd, 1836. 
 
 ' Thank God ! I believe, I hope, and love also ! May God 
 bless with His best blessings the Abbe Gerbet for all the good he 
 does me ! It comes from Albert, too, I think, for I am sure he 
 still loves me, and prays a great deal for me. When I sink 
 again I will call to mind those sweet moments of consolation, 
 and await their return. 
 
 ' There is a bright light behind that dark veil. I may not lift 
 it up, but a ray of that brightness pierces through the mournful 
 folds, and Albert is in that light. 
 
 ' I thank thee, my God ! that Thou hast made him enter 
 before me into his joy. 
 
 ' A butterfly, before his glorious change takes place, suffers, 
 sickens, and drags painfully along his caterpillar- skin, and the 
 nearer draws its hour of beauty and of light, the more he seems 
 to suffer, the more painfully he languishes. But he does not 
 complain. He knows what is before him, and then freedom 
 comes at last. His discoloured skin remains behind, a few grains 
 of dust are left to mingle with other dust, but for him captivity 
 is at an end. He flies where he lists in the fulness of his joy. 
 Thus, my beloved one, is your soul freed. My God, my Jesus, 
 unite us in Thy love ! ' 
 
 'July 4th, 1836. 
 
 ' I wish I knew what is going on in my soul ! Sometimes I 
 positively wish to die, but this is so little natural to me, that 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 247 
 
 I scarcely think the desire can be real. But what is the mean- 
 ing, then, of those yearnings for Heaven, where I am always 
 thinking that Albert is. And then I inwardly cry out, " ! 
 take me also to Thyself! " And why have I become so indifferent 
 to everything in this world, even to the beautiful places of 
 earth to such a degree, that to go through a lovely or an ugly 
 country would come exactly the same to me, which is what 
 I never felt before. But now, the only thing I care to look at 
 is the sky, ht by the sun, or spangled with stars. Music and 
 perfumes give me still perhaps a little pleasure, but riches, power, 
 jewels, travelling, and even comforts, seem to me all wearisome 
 and stale. The only thing I still passionately care for is to have 
 fresh water — cleanliness ! 
 
 * I must after all die one day ; all the care in the world will 
 not prevent this. Would it not be then more charitable to wish 
 me to die now, when I think I could go through every kind of 
 Buffering with courage, in order to attain that glorious meeting I 
 hope for ? But God is a jealous God, and He will perhaps detain 
 me here till I wish to die for love of Him, and not for love of Albert 
 only. But ! my compassionate Jesus, Who hast known ail 
 our miseries, and how much we need a loving heart to lean upon, 
 may I not, being much lower than Albert, look upon him now as 
 I did while on earth — as a stepping-stone to Thee ? 
 
 ' Four years ago, at Rome, when he was already beginning to 
 love me, I saw a bas-relief representing the martyrdom of a 
 young man and woman about to be thrown to the wild beasts. 
 His eyes were raised to Heaven, while hers were fixed upon him. 
 He was drawing strength from God and conveying it to her. I 
 have often thought since, that if Albert and I had been mar- 
 tyred, this is what we should have done. Oh ! my beloved 
 Albert, now an angel, draw me towards you, for I love you 
 more than 1 ever did before. My heart is consumed with the 
 desire to see you again. Oh ! why can it not consume my body 
 also ? But no, I am quite well. There is nothing at all the 
 matter with me.' 
 
 * July 6tli, 1836. 
 
 * My God ! my God ! I say as Albert did : " Oh ! for a little 
 respite !" — a little respite from my great anguish. What a day 
 has this been of agony, trouble, hurry, and unrest throughout ! 
 Of impatience and growing regrets of all sorts, and, above all, of 
 hopeless confusion of ideas. My good Jesus, help me ! Sometimes 
 I do not feel more wretched than when I have parted from him 
 on earth for six or seven months, and at other moments it seems 
 as if I had lost him for ever. ! my God, Thou who art 
 
248 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 all powerful, let me have, if only in a dream, some word of 
 comfort ! 
 
 ' There is but one thing that could make me bear never to see 
 him again, and that is, if I could think it would make him hap- 
 pier ; but I cannot beheve it ; on the contrary, I am sure he 
 wishes for his poor wife, all unworthy as she is, to complete his 
 happiness. This blessed thought remains firmly fixed in my 
 mind through all my grief. I shall never believe that his love 
 for me can vanish, and so I feel sure of seeing him again. 
 
 * 0! my Jesus, grant me a word, a dream, a feeling of comfort! 
 Come to my aid, strengthen my courage, increase my desire of 
 death, and when this life is ended, give me to pray for my mother 
 and brother, more effectually than I can do on earth. My Albert, 
 who was so ill- appreciated, so often misjudged by a stupid world, 
 I would fain honour in death even more than I did during my 
 life. I sometimes think it may be sweet to live if only to hear 
 what is said of him now, by the very persons who once held him 
 cheap ; and to pay him the highest tribute in my power by show- 
 ing the world that there is nothing on earth I care to live for 
 now he is gone. So be it, my Father and my God, if it be not 
 contrary to Thy will ! 
 
 ' I like to go to sleep with the hope that I may see him in a 
 dream, but the hope is always vain.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO THE ABB^ GEEBET. 
 
 ' July 6th, 1836. 
 
 * It is now a week, dear Sir, since my husband died. It seems 
 to me already a very long time, and I hate the feeling that I am 
 getting further and further from the day on which he last spoke 
 to me, and when I saw him for the last time, unless indeed it 
 was to bring me nearer to the moment of meeting him again. 
 Sometimes I hope God will show me this mercy. But I do not 
 suffer, I am afraid, as a Christian ought to do. I have not enough 
 faith, but if God takes pity on those who suffer. He must indeed 
 have pity on me. You cannot but think it would be a charity 
 to wish me to die, for when could death be a greater boon ? And 
 even when by dint of cherishing and care, those who love me have 
 succeeded in reconciling me to life, will they then be satisfied to 
 see me die ? How can my friends desire to see me die with re- 
 gret ? There is but one reason, in my opinion, which can justify 
 Christian people in wishing me to live, which is, that they may 
 think me unworthy to die. Ah ! dear Sir, in pity tell me that 
 I shall see Albert again ! If you, who are so good, whom God 
 must love so much, are convinced of this, then I too shall be- 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 249 
 
 lieve it. But oh ! let me long for death, though in truth 
 I am proof against everything, and often think that I have no 
 feeling either in my soul or body ! Pray for me. I am so afraid 
 God must be displeased with me ! ' 
 
 EUG]6nIE to PAULINE, 
 
 'July 7th, 1836. 
 
 * We started at four o'clock this afternoon for Boury. Oh ! 
 Pauline, Alexandrine breaks my heart ! She looks calm and 
 resigned, but no one sees her as I do. With me she gives way 
 to all her misery. She looks dreadfully altered, and longs only 
 to die. The Abbe Gerbet is the only person who can comfort 
 her at all. I wish he could be always near her. Poor dear 
 darling, — she never murmurs — never says " Why was this sorrow 
 sent ?" so I hope God is not displeased with her excessive grief 
 And as she finds relief in indulging it, I am not of the opinion 
 of those who try to cheer her — as they understand it — because 
 they cannot make up their minds to see Alexandrine sad for the 
 rest of her life. For my own part I think, provided she grieves 
 in a Christian way, and not as those who have no hope, she may 
 well be allowed a sadness which will become a second nature to 
 her ; for, dear Pauline, her life can only be a miserable one. 
 Dearest, give my love to your husband, a sister's love — who loves 
 you both more than herself. And, after all, that is saying very 
 little!' 
 
 EUG]^NIE,TO PAULINE. 
 
 * Boury, Sunday. 
 
 * We are at Boury, Pauline, at Boury with Alexandrine, and 
 without Albert ! O ! it seems impossible — and if one loses 
 sight for a moment of the world to come, it is absolute despair. 
 When we arrived this evening, that poor darling made my heart 
 ache. She looked so pale, her eyes wandered over everything 
 with such indifference ; her deep mourning, which looks deeper 
 on her than on any one else, her drooping figure, all her attitude 
 betokening a person who has nothing more to do or to hope for 
 in life, who does not care to stay anywhere, and is only pining to 
 depart. We have this great sorrow always before our eyes. 
 Just fancy how the thought of Albert must have been present to 
 us when we arrived to-night. He wished so much to come to 
 Boury ! It seemed at every turn as if we heard and saw him. 
 And there was Alexandrine, so listless, so cast down. With 
 what shouts of laughter she would once have aiTived here, while 
 he would have made such joyful exclamations. Both of them 
 had so much of the frank gaiety of children. Ah ! Pauline. 
 Boury is certainly a doomed place [has the jettatura]. Do you 
 
250 A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 remember what we used to say? "Those dear Alberts will 
 make everything cheerful here. They will bring with them the 
 sunshine of their own happiness." But the place does not seem 
 intended for happiness. It all looked very nice to-night ; so 
 clean, and well lit up, but I had no sooner put my foot into the 
 house, than all my painful recollections came back. My mother's 
 accident,* Fernand's arrival, our dreadful starting for Venice, — I 
 shall never be able to shake off all these painful associations. 
 The die is cast, and Boury can smile upon me again.' 
 
 alexandrine's jouenal. 
 
 * Bonry, Jvlj 7th. 
 
 * At Boury — at Boury, which Albert so much longed to see ! 
 Boury, about which we made so many plans. And now I am 
 here alone, without that dear bright companion who made every 
 place equally delightful to me. ! my God. Thou knowest 
 how dearly we loved each other, Hke happy children, who cannot 
 be happy apart, and who are amused with everything when they 
 are together. It is very foolish to think that anything can be 
 wanting to the happiness of Heaven, but it always seems to me 
 that if those innocent joys of earth are not found there, that I 
 shall miss them. Our love and our happiness are too intense for 
 earth. His illness first troubled it, but nothing but death could 
 destroy it. God, my God ! let me love him in Heaven as I 
 loved him on earth, as I love him now, and let him ever be the 
 same to me. In spite of the indescribable feeling of being here 
 without Albert, the quiet of this house, and the idea that I am in 
 the country, soothe me. Perhaps too much, for I dread every- 
 thing that could prolong my life, and I should be sorry to care 
 for any place again. During our short journey, however, I 
 looked at the world vdth quite a strange new feeling, as if I were 
 bidding it farewell, as if I noticed nothing, and scarcely belonged 
 to it. 
 
 * Albert was indeed the light that gilded everything for me. 
 Did I not find pleasure when with him, in things which would 
 once have seemed to me insurmountably difficult and tiresome ? 
 Did I not interest myself in the most minute details of house- 
 keeping ? But now all is changed. With him, pearls, jewels, 
 pretty rooms, and lovely scenery, were all beautiful to me. Now 
 
 * On the 17th of November of the preceding year, my mother and Olga had 
 been thrown out of a carriage, the horses of which had run away. Both had 
 been rather seriously hurt, and they had both scarcely recovered from this 
 accident when Femand arrived from Venice with the account of Albert's dan- 
 gerous relapse. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 251 
 
 everything is dull, and cold, and worthless. I only pine to know 
 where he is, if he is still happy, if he still loves me, and to 
 share everything with him, as I promised to do before God's 
 Altar. 
 
 ' I do nothing well ; I am not really resigned ; I make other 
 people unhappy ; I am cold and hard ; and then I love God so 
 little ; I am doing nothing to win Heaven. Oh ! sweet Virgin 
 Mary, pray for me ! Dear Angels, bear up my prayers to the 
 Throne of God, and bring down again into my heart purity and a 
 meek spirit. May I grieve no one, and be firmly established in 
 faith. ! Heavenly Father, love me. Thy poor child, with a 
 very pitying love, for Our Lord Jesus Christ's sake ! ' 
 
 * Boury, July 8th, 1836. 
 *Yes, I believe I really wish that this earthly form which 
 Albert loved should be dissolved, in order that the immortal soul 
 which it encloses may be joined, through Thy Divine love, with 
 that soul which God joined with it on earth. My poor darling 
 love, how I tormented you about your health ! Alas ! had I 
 known that nothing could cure you, I would have let you do 
 everything just as you wished ! ' 
 
 ALEXANDBINB TO THE ABB^ GERBET. 
 
 * Same day. 
 * I like this place, and in spite of the acute pain I feel in 
 picturing to myself the happy days I might have spent here with 
 Albert, who wished so much to come to Boury : notwithstanding 
 the desolate feeling of being alone in this pretty apartment which 
 we were to have shared, I find it still almost too sweet to be 
 staying here with Eugenie, and all the dear recollections of the 
 past ! It is perhaps in mercy, and to bring my sorrows more 
 quickly to an end, that God will have me leave this place : or it 
 may be that I grieve for my Albert in too soothing a way here, 
 and that I must expiate my fault by other bitter and many trials. 
 I entreat you, dear Sir, to come here before I go,* and to give 
 me once more absolution and your blessing. Come and strengthen 
 my hope of seeing Albert again in Heaven. Come and inspire 
 me with that charity which forgives and hopes all things, and at 
 the same time allow me to wish to die, for I think I can declare 
 with truth, I would not ask God to change the least of His 
 decrees for me, but only I wish that my desire for death might 
 prove in accordance with His will. Did I say that I would not 
 change the least of His decrees ? Then I was wrong, for had He 
 ordained that I was never to see Albert again, I should w^sh Him 
 * She was going to Germany. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 to reverse that decree. Do in mercy tell me He does not will 
 that. Tell me that He intends to join in Heaven those that were 
 joined on earth, in spite of so many obstacles. Ah ! what 
 regrets, what sad regrets of all kinds ! They are sometimes so 
 intense, that I am afraid they border on murmuring. Let me 
 not forfeit my place beside a husband who died so holily. ! 
 toy Grod, keep me from any great sin ! ' 
 
 ALEXANDEINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 •Boury, July 10th, 1836. 
 
 * My dear Pauline, — I ought to have written to you on the 
 29th of June. I was busy in other ways, but I could have 
 written, for God has given me more strength than I could ever 
 have believed. Did I not see Albert's eyes close in death ? Did 
 I not feel his hand grow cold in mine ? Eugenie will have told 
 you that I obtained the favour I had so often asked of God. 
 That he died resting in my arms, his hand in mine, and that I 
 did not give way the least while there, watching his last sighs, 
 and when I saw that he was near his end, I asked the Sister if 
 he was still suffering, and she answered " Never again !" Then I 
 let him go without regret, so at least it seemed to me. Only 
 I very gently kissed his dear eyes, which were sightless, and 
 perhaps without feeling, and I breathed in his ear his own 
 beloved name, ^^ Albert T' — the tenderest thing I could think of 
 then, for that included everything. I did it, that through the 
 clouds which gather about the dark valley leading to Eternal 
 Light, he might still hear my voice, which, like my poor self, 
 now parted from him, must linger on the shores of life ; and 
 which perchance he heard like some echo dying away in the 
 distance, as it may be he saw me like one little by little vanish- 
 ing in the gloom. 
 
 ' Ah ! Pauline, I had a great deal of strength at that moment, 
 and it lasted for three days afterwards. Then I began to sink, 
 and sink, and each day I feel more beaten down than the day 
 before. I cannot live without him, and I cannot die, for nothing 
 seems to kill me ! We are but one soul — and now God has 
 parted that one soul asunder. There was no being on earth in 
 whom I could find such sympathy. I do not believe a more 
 perfect union, a more thorough confidence, or a stronger desire 
 to make one another happy was ever known in any marriage. 
 
 ' Notwithstanding his sad state of health, its joy was indeed 
 too sweet, too intense for earth ; and two years of such a 
 marriage, four years of such mutual love, exceeded the measure 
 of happiness allotted to men in this world. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 253 
 
 * Albert died on the 29th of June, the anniversary of the day 
 when, four years ago, and for the first time, I felt conscious that 
 I loved him. How I congratulate myself now on every proof of 
 love I gave him, and if anything can comfort me it is the 
 thought of the joy he had in my love. Never could such a 
 creature be loved enough ; so modest, so humble, and possessing, 
 above all others, the qualities which make a man most like an 
 Angel. 
 
 ' How soon I found out this, and felt that there was something 
 angelic in his nature. The Vomero, Pisa, and Korsen, appear to 
 me bright with hues of Heaven in spite of the sufferings which 
 mingle with it all. Even at Venice, during the first months, 
 there was somewhat of Heavenly joy. Afterwards it seemed 
 to be Grod's will to separate me from him in some measure, even 
 on earth, probably that I, poor miserable creature that I am, 
 might learn to live without him. It is, therefore, perhaps His 
 will that I should live on still ! 
 
 ' Dear Pauline, Eugenie sends you the beginning of my letter, 
 but my heart and eyes burn when I talk of Albert, and I must 
 go on. 
 
 ' Pauline, you have never known, never enough appreciated 
 your brother. Do not be hurt at my saying this, for I accuse 
 myself of the same thing. But I thank God that at least I 
 always despised the opinions of those who wished me to give 
 him up, and I am glad — God forgive me — that I was sometimes 
 a little weak in yielding to him about everything. The wish 
 was almost irresistible to try to make him happy in every way 
 not wrong ; and he was so free from conceit, and there was some- 
 thing so pure and holy about his happiness even in the height 
 of his earthly passion. 
 
 ' I am also glad that I did not hesitate risking my life, or at 
 least my health, in nursing him, or if that is going too far, at 
 least that I know I never stopped to consider what could hurt 
 me or not, and I felt pleasure in exposing myself to the danger 
 of breathing the same air with him. And lastly, for his sake, 
 I had courage — which I thought could never be done — to tell 
 my mother that I wished to become a Catholic' 
 
 * July 14th. 
 
 ' Dearest Pauline, I have let this letter drag on from day to 
 day, and now we have received yours of the 7th. You speak so 
 well of the reasons why God may have prolonged his life. My 
 only consolation is to see His Providence so clearly shown in our 
 story, for then, I think He intends us to be together in Heaven, 
 if only I am not too unworthy to be there. I have not the 
 
254 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 slightest energy" now for any good work. I have even lost the 
 keen interest I took in religious subjects before his death, and I 
 could neither write nor keep up any conversation on points of 
 controversy. I am, however, gladder than ever to be a Catholic. 
 As to everything else I feel frozen and petrified. Albert has 
 taken away my heart with him, and sometimes I am barbarously 
 indifferent about other people, and even sometimes about my own 
 sorrow, for I eat, sleep, go out, and listen to music, with a 
 painful sort of pleasure which breaks my heart. I like to listen 
 to what he liked, and then music, more than anything else, makes 
 me enter into what Heaven is. 
 
 * Ah ! poor wretched me, we might have been so happy ! His 
 health during the last five months spoilt our joy, and yet it was 
 better than nothing — that breath of life, that possibihty of 
 hearing his voice. I did not think I should ever come to feel 
 this, I who used to say: — " It is better for him to die than to live 
 and suffer for montlis in this way,^^ — and who imagined I really 
 thought 60 ? And now, I can scarcely bring myself to feel, " He 
 is happy now, and it is well that it should be over." My earthly 
 nature, always so strong within me, cannot conceive that the 
 joys of Heaven are better than the joys of earth. It seems io 
 me as if nothing could go beyond what I have known. 
 
 * I think I have a sincere desire to follow Albert, it matters 
 not by what painful ways or sharp sufferings, so that I may 
 reach the Home where he is, and that I see him happy. But, 
 alas ! I forget God so much in him. What will He do with me. 
 Perhaps He will keep me a long time in this world, or perhaps 
 not let me die till I have regained my former zeal in His service. 
 Oh ! sometimes I am tempted to say that He has forsaken me ! 
 He has allowed me to fall from a height whence I could discern 
 Heaven, and I am now in a dark abyss. The first days of my 
 sorrow were bright in comparison with these. The first evening 
 after his death, when he had still been speaking to me in the 
 morning, the starry sky and the moon seemed to me fail' and 
 smiUng. I had a strange feeling of Albert's happiness, and did 
 not suffer more than I used to do when he was away for a while. 
 On one of those days at S. Sulpice, the sound of the organ, the 
 sight of the blue sky through the church windows, gave me an 
 ecstatic foretaste of Heavenly joy, and made me shed sweet tears. 
 Now it is all darkness. Only fancy that I can never even dream 
 of him ! And yet your father's love for him was not greater 
 than mine — he was not everything to him as he was to me.* 
 Will you send me all Albert's letters that you have ? and you 
 
 * M. de la Ferronnaya often saw his son in his dreams. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 255 
 
 must give me back all mine too, that I may dwell on the picture 
 of our past happiness ; j&rst, because nothing can interest me so 
 much, and then because I am writing our story.' 
 
 alexandrine's journal. 
 
 'July, 1836. 
 
 ' O ! my God ! how is this grief to be borne ! And yet I am 
 sometimes afraid that, after having longed so much for death, I 
 should be wanting in courage were it really at hand. 
 
 * My greatest regret is not that I have lost Albert, but that I 
 so little appreciated the blessing of having such a husband. 
 
 * I desire nothing but what God wills, for any joys which do 
 not come from Him always frighten me. I do not pretend that 
 I never drank from poisoned fountains, but my wish, or at least 
 my prayer, was, that neither I nor Albert, nor those we loved, 
 might ever quench our thirst for happiness at an unhallowed 
 source. These were my daily prayers : " My God, enlighten 
 Albert and me, and all who are dear to us. Teach us the true faith, 
 the true religion, and let nothing he joyful to us that does not come 
 from Thee." O ! my God ! continue to bless me, for in spite of 
 the darkness in which I live, I feel that Thy grace helps me still. 
 Ah ! if I might but begin over again our sweet married life, even 
 with the knowledge that it would end the day it did. And yet, 
 poor creatures that we are, in vain the past yields its lessons ; we 
 go on failing in duty towards the living, who may at any moment 
 be taken from us, we fall into our careless ways again, we wound 
 others, forgetting that those wounds may one day tort are our 
 own hearts, and cause us more suffering than they could ever 
 inflict on others. Albert, forgive me ; my sweet Saviour, pardon 
 me. Let me be with him in Heaven. Grant me to be with Thee 
 for ever. Amen.' 
 
 I can add nothing to these words. I could not better picture 
 than Alexandrine has done that desolation which took possession 
 of her in the spot where she had hoped to spend such happy 
 days with Albert, and when she found herself in the rooms they 
 were to have lived in together, and for which such joyful pre- 
 parations had been made. To live in France, in the country, 
 under his father's roof, to build themselves a nest, whence they 
 could have taken flight from time to time, but to which they 
 would always have returned; such had been their dream, and 
 had it been realized, they would have wished for nothing more ; 
 and in all probability this kind of existence, which always en- 
 hanced the enjoyment of their married life, would have been to 
 them as perfectly happy as anything this world can afford. 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 Too perfect, it may be, and we must believe that they were 
 permitted to look forward to it only to sharpen her trial, and to add 
 to that exceeding weight of glory which is the crown of earthly 
 Buffering. Alexandrine found, however, in the physical repose 
 which succeeded so much fatigue, in the society of my mother 
 and that of Eugenie, who was watching like an Angel beside her 
 grieving sister, in the tranquillity and even sadness of the place, 
 something which suited the state of her mind ; and, notwith- 
 standing her affection for her mother and the longing she had to 
 be" with her, it was not without a painful effort that, after spend- 
 ing some weeks at Boury, she prepared to go to Kreiiznacht, 
 where the Princess Lapoukhyn then was. How often, before 
 and during that journey, she must have repeated the ' Credo of 
 Sorrow' which the Abbe Gerbet had sent her a few days before : 
 
 ' I believe, my God ! that in suffering with submission I 
 help to fill up the Passion of Christ. 
 
 ' I believe, that everything created in this world groaneth and 
 travaileth as if in the pangs of labour, waiting for the manifesta- 
 tion of Christ. 
 
 ' I beUeve, that we have no continuing city, and that we seek 
 one to come. 
 
 * I believe, that all things work together for good to them that 
 love God. 
 
 ' 1 believe, that they who sow in tears shall reap in joy. 
 
 ' I believe, that blessed are the dead that die in the Lord. 
 
 ' I believe, that our tribulation worketh in us an exceeding 
 weight of glory, if we look not at what is seen but what is unseen ; 
 for the things we see are earthly, but the things we see not are 
 Heavenly. 
 
 ' I believe, that our corruptible body shall put on incorruption, 
 that our mortality shall put on immortality, and that death will 
 be swallowed up in victory. 
 
 ' I believe, that God shall wipe away all tears from the eyes of 
 the just, that there shall be no more death for them, neither sigh- 
 ing, and that there shall be no more pain, when the first earth 
 shall pass away.' 
 
 Alexandrine left Boury on the 21st of July. My father and 
 Eugenie accompanied her as far as Paris. 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 'Paris, July 21st, 1836. 
 * My dearest, — ^We got here this morning from Boury, my 
 father, Alexandrine, and I. On Sunday Alexandrine starts for 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 257 
 
 Kreuznacht with my father. This evening M. de Montalembert, 
 Alexandrine, and I, went to that sad but dear house.* She fell 
 on her knees when she went into Albert's room, and for five 
 minutes had a sort of nervous attack. As there was no one 
 there but ourselves, wo allowed her to give full vent to her grief, 
 and this was a relief to her. Poor, dear love — she seems to me 
 to grow more wretched every day ! What a miserable existence 
 she will lead ; she is so thin, so changed ; her long black gown 
 hangs about her, her pretty figure droops, her whole attitude 
 betokens sorrow, and her eyes wander over everything with such 
 listless indifierence. It makes me sad to look at her. S. 
 Francis of Sales says, in speaking of widows, "What does the 
 word mean but destitute and bereaved, that is to say, forlorn and 
 miserable?" That is so like Alexandrine now. This other pic- 
 ture, which S. Francis draws, suits her exactly. It is so 
 pretty : — 
 
 ' " The true widow is in the Church like a little March violet, 
 which sheds an incomparable sweetness by the perfume of 
 her devotion, and keeps herself almost always hidden under the 
 large leaves of her lowliness, and by her sober colour shows forth 
 mortification." 
 
 * ! Pauline, when the idea comes into my mind that it is all 
 over, it bewilders me ! When I remember our journey, Venice, 
 our arrival, getting there, it seems to me sometimes that I must 
 have dreamt it all, and that Albert cannot be really dead. What 
 a terrible blank the loss of so beloved a brother makes in a house ! 
 And then to think of Alexandrine going on as she is to the end 
 of her life, and yet not able to die ! 
 
 * When and where shall we meet again ! Will the keen edge 
 of all these feelings be worn away by then ? What a trial we 
 have known ! and, besides its great griefs, what troubles there 
 are in life !' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 'Botiry, Saturday, July 30th — 11 o'clock at night. 
 
 * My dearest, — I must write to you this evening, and my 
 letter must be short, for I foresee a great many things to do to- 
 morrow, besides going to High Mass and Yespers, so that I shall 
 not have five minutes to myself. I have received a letter from 
 Alexandrine, dated from Metz, two days after her departure. 
 Think how this journey must have reminded her of the return 
 from Venice. The startings, the stopping at inns, the very act 
 of travelling, and even the motion of the carriage, must be all 
 painful sensations to her, and she writes : — 
 
 * Eue de Madame, where Albert died. 
 
258 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 ' " My soul dies within me a thousand times, but my body 
 cannot die !" 
 
 ' Alex, Pauline, my beloved ones — I doat upon you ! So much 
 so, that I really do not want any other love in this world. I 
 should Hke to give to God all the most fervent feelings of my 
 soul, and to devote my life to you and to Alexandrine. Thus my 
 heart would be abundantly filled. My own concerns must, as a 
 matter of course, be wearisome to me ; yours interest me so much 
 more. My only desire, my only recreation, I think, is to be 
 always with you both, to be near you, and to look on at your 
 happiness ; with her, to share her remembrances of the past, and 
 with you both to speak of the eternal joys to come. Do you not 
 agree with me, Pauline, that this is really my only work in this 
 world ? Well, God knows best ! let Him direct my life ! Good- 
 night, my faithful sister, my companion, everything that is most 
 dear and precious that I can call you. You have been everything 
 to me in all ways, and may God reward you for all you have 
 done for me, and ever preserve to you that happiness for which I 
 have offered, and do gladly offer up, every joy, every pleasure, of 
 my own, and would sacrifice life itself — my life ! The sacrifice 
 would be more applicable, if I offered to live for you to be ninety 
 years old ! 0, my own Pauline ! God bless you a thousand and 
 a thousand times !' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Kreuznacht, August 1st. 
 
 * Dearest Sister, darling Pauline, — I was waked up this morn- 
 ing by your delightful letter. God sends me from time to time 
 these httle helps. How good of you to have copied for me those 
 words of Albert's. You might not have thought of it, you 
 might have lost them, and he, without loving me less, might 
 never have written them. Everything coming from him that I 
 recover in this way seems to me specially sent by the Fatherly 
 Hand of God ; nevertheless, nothing appeases the hunger of my 
 heart. 
 
 ' Pauline ; no one can conceive what I suffer. The blank, the 
 gloom, the weariness, the darkness with which the whole world 
 is filled — that world I once thought so charming, that I was 
 afraid my love for it would outlive even Albert's loss. But he 
 has taken away with him, thank God, all the attractions it pos- 
 sessed, and I see now that I only cared for him, whilst I seemed 
 to care for other things. 
 
 ' " I am in love with death " (I think it was S. Ignatius who 
 said that), and I hope that amidst the sufferings which will 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 259 
 
 bring it on I shall enjoy the thought of being on the road which 
 will lead me to Albert. 
 
 ' Mine is a strange life ; I feel beforehand, and at every hour 
 of the day, the solemn sensation of approaching death, and I 
 watch for the least symptoms of illness with the same eagerness 
 with which others watch for indications of good health. But do 
 not be uneasy about me, dear Pauline. I take care of myself. 
 I drink the waters of Ems ; and only think what it must have 
 been to speak to a doctor about myself ! I feel sometimes a wish 
 to cry out, so as almost to die in the effort, an agonizing desire 
 to fly from myself, to try anything new, that I may get back, 
 even for a moment, the happiness I have lost, — to hear his voice, 
 to see him smile ! ! why has not a soul the power to break 
 its prison when it suffers so dreadfully ! Some souls have done 
 so, even as there have been prisoners who, little by little, have 
 succeeded in piercing a passage through their dungeon walls. 
 
 ' My body seems too strong to be ever touched by weakness. 
 Sometimes I detest this body, though even now I feel two quite 
 different sensations — one of utter detachment from it, the other 
 of great interest, so that I sometimes say to myself, as if speaking 
 of another person, " This, then, is the wife that captivating 
 Albert loved so much." And at such times I feel again an odd 
 desire to look pretty, though he is no longer here, that others may 
 praise his taste, and, as it were, to make our story more interest- 
 ing. Apropos of our story, you know I have begun to write it, 
 and it gave me pleasure at first, but I have since lost courage 
 about it. Still I should like to finish it before I die. All that 
 interests me now is to copy his letters, because they are himself. 
 I wish there were enough of them to last me to the end of my life. 
 
 * Pauline, you are, I am sure, too reasonable and too wise to 
 wish me to become bound afresh to life, and then be satisfied 
 that I should die. Not that I think I shall ever be attached to 
 it again, still those about me wish that I should. And, after all, 
 I must die in the end, and how absurd it is not to wish me to 
 do so now, when it would give me so much pleasure ! Yester- 
 day I was at a delightful High Mass. Such an organ, and 
 such music ! During the Elevation I shut my eyes, and my 
 mind seemed to be filled with a kind of delight, in keeping with 
 the sounds I heard. I fancied myself dead — mind you, this was 
 my own doing, there was nothing extraordinary about it ; — it 
 was in the night, and in the midst of the darkness I felt the 
 presence of an Angel shining white and shadowy, who led me 
 to Albert, and I said to myself : — 
 
 ' " It is not possible, and yet it must be he." Our bodies, or 
 perhaps only his — for it is difficult to remember distinctly this 
 
 s 2 
 
A SISTER'S STORY 
 
 sort of dreams — seemed transparent and bright as gold. Poor 
 human mind, how little it can picture things which it cannot 
 comprehend ! But it was a sweet moment, and I long for 
 another like it. What religious people the Germans are ! Fancy 
 an immense church quite full, and every one so profoundly 
 attentive, and then the fine chanting in unison, with such true 
 and solemn voices, and the devout way in which they take holy 
 water, — no levity or incredulity in any of their faces. All this 
 makes me feel among brothers and sisters, and I believe I should 
 have found the truest sympathy in every one of these good 
 peasants ' 
 
 Once at Kreuznacht, Alexandrine opened her locked book and 
 wrote in it the following page : — * Kreuznacht, August 3rd, 1836. 
 ! my God, I feel so cowardly and cast down, that I do not 
 like to write even in this book. I hardly know how I should 
 like to spend my days : in listening to music, I suppose — always 
 music* — and turning over pious books, — above all, in reading 
 everything that Albert wrote, — and in talking of eternity and of 
 our meeting in Heaven ; and I have scarcely one of these enjoy- 
 ments here. But no matter, how could I really wish for any 
 sweetness in a life so wretched, humbled, and blighted as mine 
 is without him? How true it is that a widow's position is a 
 humbling one. And if she has loved her husband she would not 
 have it otherAAdse. I should think I was forgetting him if the 
 slightest feeling of pride rose up in my mind, for in him I have 
 lost all. Any beggar who loves and is loved is a thousand times 
 richer and happier than I am now. No wonder that S. Eliza- 
 beth said she should be glad to go and beg with her hus- 
 band. If I were allowed to see Albert alive before me, with 
 what joy I would put on rags and walk barefoot by his side ! 
 It would not signify to me whether the pebbles were 
 wounding my feet, or his either, as long as we could talk 
 together, and I could enjoy the charming gaiety, the delightful 
 tenderness, with which he would say to me, " Poor Alex, you 
 wept for me as dead, and here I am, and now we shall never be 
 parted as long as we live. Let us go on bravely. Are not all 
 the privations of poverty better than parting?" I could have 
 been so happy in that kind of life. Nature would have delighted 
 us more than the most splendid palaces, and fresh water is to be 
 found everywhere, so that poverty could not have prevented me 
 from appearing cleanly bright in my husband's eyes. We loved 
 the beauties of Nature so intensely ; we have so enjoyed being 
 together, under the clear sky, amongst the flowers and in the 
 * This will seem strange to those who knew Alexandrine's courageous activity 
 during the last years of her life. 
 
A SISTER'S ST0R7. 261 
 
 woods, among rivers, lakes, and mountauis. He was gentle 
 and gay at once, both grave and merry, tender and enthu- 
 siastic, kind and thoughtful, high-minded and humble, modest 
 and pious. Yes, he was all, and more than all, I have said.' 
 
 Towards the end of September Alexandrine returned to 
 Boury, and not long afterwards the Abbe Gerbet arrived. At 
 thab period of gloomy sorrow — when she was still given up to 
 such passionate regret, and looked back with such intense 
 longing to the joyous days which had for ever fled — he seemed 
 specially raised up by God to heal and comfort that bruised 
 and suffering soul, and his presence at Boury was one of the 
 things for which she felt most grateful in her after-life. His 
 heahng influence soon began to tell upon her, and the over-im- 
 petuous element in her grief calmed down. 
 
 In September Eugenie wrote to me : — ' Alex and I lead quite 
 a convent life. We do not see a single soul, we neither pay nor 
 receive a single visit. Now and again we laugh, and then are 
 surprised at the sound, and tell each other that people must laugh 
 sometimes as long as they live. They live on hope, I suppose.' 
 
 All this time I was absent from Boury. Nine months had 
 passed away since Albert's death, and I had not yet seen any of 
 my family. Once even there had been a question of my husband's 
 going suddenly to Portugal, and in that case I must have made 
 up my mind to leave England without first going home. We 
 should not then have met before a fresh parting which was to 
 separate us by a wider distance and an indefinite time. This 
 sorrow, however, was spared me, and we went to Boury in 
 October, having left it in April, when Albert was still living, and 
 Alexandrine had never yet been there. I was now going to see 
 her for the first time since Albert's death. We got there about 
 eight o'clock in the evening, when no one but a servant received 
 us at the door, and told us that my father and mother and 
 Eugenie, who did not expect us so soon, were gone out to dinner 
 at Dangu, and that Madame Albert, as Alexandrine would always 
 be called, was alone in her room upstairs. The servant wished 
 to let her know that we were come, which I foolishly prevented, 
 and running up the stairs, I crossed the corridor and went into 
 Alexandrine's room without even knocking. The room was thickly 
 carpeted, so that the door opened without noise, and I was within 
 a few steps of her before she saw me. The sight of my poor 
 sister struck me to the heart. I had left her in Paris, carefully 
 and even elegantly dressed — for during his last illness Albert 
 had liked to see her in the gowiis and ornaments which she had 
 worn in happier days — and I found her in that deep mourning 
 which, as Eugenie had so well said, looked deeper ujpon her than on 
 
262 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 any one else. She was sitting in tlie carved high-backed chair 
 which was Albert's gift, and leaning on a table covered with a 
 sky-blue carpet. The mournful widow's cap she usually wore 
 was hanging on the back of her chair, her head was uncovered, 
 and her brown hair somewhat in disorder. One small lamp was 
 the only light in that large room, and the thick green damask 
 hangings of her bed, which had been brought from Venice by 
 Albert, quite concealed me from her sight. There she sat, looking 
 exactly like the picture of her which I possess. 
 
 I never shall forget that moment. I went towards her — 
 ' Alexandrine ! ' At the sound of my voice she looked up quickly, 
 saw me, and sprang forward to catch me in her arms, but the 
 surprise and emotion made her stagger, and she fell suddenly on 
 the floor. I was very much alarmed, for I thought she had 
 fainted, but she got up quickly, and began by begging my pardon. 
 
 ' You must not think lam always like this,' she said, ' I assure 
 you I am not. I am much calmer than you would think, and I 
 still enjoy a great many things.' 
 
 And, in fact, as soon as she had recovered from the sudden 
 shock, she sat down beside me, and we held our first sad conver- 
 sation with some kind of calmness, and in spite of all that had 
 passed since we had met, and all she had to tell me, in spite of 
 our sorrow and our tears, that first hour we spent together was 
 more sweet than sad for us both. After that, my father and 
 mother returned with Eugenie, and that was also a meeting, the 
 sweetness of which no sorrow could destroy. And still, after the 
 lapse of many years, I see before me the great drawing-room at 
 Boury, just as it looked that evening when I found myself there 
 for the first time after such great and sad changes. Death had 
 struck one of our most beloved ones, and broken up that happy 
 and charming family circle which made our lives so enchantingly 
 bright. We had for ever lost that mistaken idea of youth, that hap- 
 piness is the earthly reward of a good life, and that love and trust 
 in God will guard us from every sorrow. This idea had been 
 uppermost in our minds only a few months before, and we had 
 all been bHnd to Albert's danger, because we thought it impos- 
 sible that God would take him from us. And now how was it 
 with our thoughts, our love, and our trust in God ! What had 
 been the effects of this trial, and what would be its fruits ! Such 
 were my thoughts as we gathered round the fire, and I looked at 
 each one of the circle by turns, and it may seem surprising, but it 
 is nevertheless certain, that I experienced once more the feeling 
 I had at Paris, during Albert's last illness. 
 
 It seemed to me that evening that they were all endowed with 
 a new strength ; that something had been learnt, something 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 263 
 
 gained; that fresli lieiglits had been reached, new truths reaHzed, 
 and more wonderful than all, a sort of happiness won, which the 
 careless days of childhood and early youth had never known. I 
 know that such gleams as these are but transient lights ; that 
 they are quickly clouded, and often wholly vanish, but the gloom 
 which follows is not so rayless as if that light had never been 
 discerned. 
 
 There sat Alexandrine by the fireside, much changed from what 
 she was, her beautiful figure bent, and wrapped in the long black 
 scarf she no w always wore. Her face was very pale, and the expres- 
 sion of her eyes, as Eugenie had said, as calm as that of a person 
 who no longer expects or desires anything on earth. But there 
 was at the same time a deeper sweetness, and something so 
 serene in her countenance, that it seemed to impart peace to all 
 who approached her. During this time of sorrow, my mother 
 showed her usual self-forgetfulness, and was more than ever 
 occupied with the least joys and sorrows of others; that tender 
 heart seemed to have enlarged, in order to take in and share every 
 cross and every burthen. As usual I enjoyed with her that fulness 
 of confidence and sympathy which had been the earliest happiness 
 of my life ; she was always ready to hear everything, perfectly 
 understood all that was said to her, and joined to the utmost 
 sjveetness of temper, the most intelligent tenderness of character. 
 Perhaps I have already said these things of my mother, but I can 
 never recall her dear image without giving it a token of my love, 
 and sometimes I feel as if I received one from her in return. 
 
 As to Eugenie, of whom I shall now have to make frequent 
 mention, I found her much improved in looks. At her age the 
 efiects of fatigue are not lasting, and she had recovered from the 
 strain she had gone through beside Albert's dying bed. The 
 beauty of her complexion was enhanced by her deep mourning ; 
 the open, l-adiant expression of her face conveyed the idea that 
 some mystery of joy and comfort had been revealed to her by her 
 first acquaintance with death. 
 
 Olga was grown tall, and her slight figure was very graceful, 
 her profile as regular as Eugenie's, but her countenance more 
 serious. At fifteen she already inclined to meditate on deep sub- 
 jects, which might have proved dangerous if her rare candour 
 and simplicity had not always led her, without the slightest 
 reserve, to disclose her inmost thoughts. She was singularly 
 gentle and docile, and therefore easy to guide. Eugenie, 
 especially, whom she loved above every one, could do what she 
 pleased with her. Olga was, of all my mother's daughters, the 
 one who most resembled her in looks and character. The word 
 angelic seemed peculiarly applicable to my young sister through- 
 
264 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 out her short life, and yet more aflfectingly so at the moment of 
 her death. 
 
 But it was my father who seemed to have reaped the most 
 profound sanctifying, and permment benefits from Albert's 
 death. It seemed as if the beloved son, whose departure had 
 been attended by so many paternal blessings, had borne them up 
 with him to Heaven, and showered them down again in abundant 
 graces on that revered and boloved head. I shall not be contra- 
 dicted, I am sure, by any of those who have known my father, 
 when I speak of what was felt for him, even by those out of his 
 own family and immediate circle, who knew the winning charm 
 which he exercised on every one who approached him. These 
 fascinating qualities, and his delightful kindness, caused him 
 almost to be worshipped by his children. But now a new motive 
 of affection and reverence was added to all those which had ren- 
 dered him already dear to his family and friends. Perhaps that 
 very l^ve and respect ought to check my pen, and make me fear 
 to speak on so delicate and sacred a subject, but I think it would 
 not be possible, when writing the story of Alfred's life and death, 
 to suppress the fact that from the very hour he died in his 
 father's arms, the principle of faith which had slumbered but 
 never died in his soul, woke up to a full, fervent, and energetic 
 life, and brought forth to the end of his life such fruits of virtue, 
 that the world looked on amazed. The world indeed (I apply 
 this word to what is usually called the great world), which had 
 lavished upon him so much praise in other days, had none to 
 bestow upon him in this new phase of his life. But a silent 
 thanksgiving rose from that pure, humble, and fervent heart, 
 which had so prayed, to hoped, and so patiently waited beside 
 him, and thus at last obtained a reward beyond what she had 
 prayed for, and sweeter than her hopes. From the moment my 
 father had seen Albert die, that son whom four years ago at 
 Civita Yecchia he had nursed with such anguish and such devoted 
 tenderness, a sort of foretaste of the graces he was about to 
 receive made him accept this grief with resignation, and even 
 with a kind of joy. 
 
 My mother, whose heart was still sore with the recent wound, 
 said to me on the first evening we met : ' Oh ! I do envy and 
 admire your father. Since our dear child has gone to God, he 
 seems to be in Heaven himself 
 
 In this way then, I saw those that are now gone to their rest. 
 Thus I met them on that evening with Fernand, and Albertine,* 
 and soon afterwards the Abbe Gerbet. f 
 
 * Albertine was several years younger than Olga. She married in 1850, the 
 Viscomte de la Panouse. 
 
 t He died Bishop of Perpignan, in 1864. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 We all went to the chapel for night-prayers, and I heard there 
 several hymns set to words composed by that kind and excellent 
 friend. To speak of the poetical talents which the Abbe Grerbet 
 possessed, in common with the more essential gifts which the 
 Church and the world have so long recognized in him, would be 
 to displease and even, perhaps, to disobey him, but I cannot help 
 m.entioning the way in which he employed this talent in the 
 exercise of a wise and heartfelt charity. Of all the things which 
 had once delighted Alexandrine, music was the only one for 
 which she retained a fondness. It seemed almost a necessity to 
 her, and it is impossible to describe how much those pious songs, 
 which expressed her grief, helped to soothe and raise her spirits 
 during that sombre period of depression. It was one of the many 
 ways in which that Q-ood Samaritan sought to heal the wounds 
 of her poor heart. Besides the hymns which were sung in the 
 chapel, he was so kind as even to change the words of the fa- 
 vourite songs she used to sing with Albert into others applicable 
 to her present position. And Alexandrine found a sort of painful 
 pleasure in hearing them sung by Femand, whose voice was 
 rather like his brother's. Considerable pleasure was mingled with 
 the pain of my first return home, though the contrast was very 
 striking between the joyous party assembled at Castellamare two 
 years before, and the family group in deep mourning in the cold 
 melancholy country house in Normandy; but after the first 
 agitation had subsided, I could not but feel happy to sit between 
 Alexandrine and Eugenie, and the whole time of our visit was 
 wonderfully enjoyable. When people are of the same heart and 
 mind there is no end to the subjects of conversation ; but, besides 
 our pleasant talks when we three were together, there were 
 always certain times when each of them came to me alone. 
 Alexandrine then talked to me about Eugenie, and Eugenie about 
 Alexandrine. They had gone through days which had increased 
 their mutual affection, and at the same time somewhat changed 
 its nature. Alexandrine now felt towards Eugenie much as she 
 would have done towards some Angel had it appeared to her under 
 the form of a child, and on her side Eugenie looked upon Alex- 
 andrine with so much compassion and tender love that she would 
 have thought little of devoting her whole life to her. For my 
 part, I had a thousand things to tell them, for neither sorrow, 
 nor seclusion, nor the distaste of the world, which both felt al- 
 most equally at that time, interfered with the tender interest they 
 took in all the incidents of a life cast amidst distant scenes and 
 persons wholly unknown to them. Eugenie especially insisted 
 on the most circumstantial details, and from the most important 
 matters down to the colour of a flower or a ribbon worn at a 
 
266 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 party, nothmg was to be left untold. Those who have known 
 w^hat it is to be loved in this way and then had to endure the loss 
 of that happiness, know what a blank is left, not only in the 
 places whence the visible presence of the beloved ones has departed, 
 but also among scenes they have never visited. 
 
 It was during this stay at Boury that I became well acquainted 
 for the first time with the Abbe Grerbet, and learned to appreciate 
 the qualities which so particularly fitted him to be the author of 
 the book he was then writing , On the Treatment of the SouVs 
 Diseases. Few, indeed, ever possessed in a higher degree that 
 Divine science, or better knew how to read the soul or to reveal 
 to it its own secrets ; few men have so joined compassion to firm- 
 ness, or have had greater skill in imparting peace to a troubled 
 soul, at the same time rousing it to efforts which it deemed 
 beyond its strength. I should be tempted to say that no one ever 
 excelled as he did in this sacred ministry, if I did not know, and 
 gratefully acknowledge, that most Catholics in the course of their 
 lives have met with some such wise and good physician, whom 
 they have had cause to bless in time of need. 
 
 Long and earnest were my father's conversations at that time 
 with his holy guest and friend. And when we all met in the 
 evening, the Abbe Grerbet knew well how to second his efibrts in 
 promoting cheerfulness, and I retain the most delightful recol- 
 lectious of the talent, the kindness, the nobleness of thought, the 
 gaiety and peculiar charm, which made those conversations so 
 extremely enjoyable. 
 
 Then came the blessed hour of night-prayers, which were 
 always accompanied with beautiful music. Eugenie's voice, 
 assisted by Olga's fine contralto and Alexandrine's pure and high 
 soprano, formed a choir such as is seldom met with. My brother 
 also often took a part, and the singing in that little chapel long 
 lingered in the memory of those who were then present. 
 
 The Chateau de Boury may be described in a few words. It 
 was a fine building, more like one of the hotels of the Faubourg 
 S. Germain than a country house ; with a great staircase, vast 
 corridors, lofty and spacious rooms, and plenty of air and light, 
 which might have rendered the dwelling bright and cheerful, if 
 the view from every window had not been to the utmost degree 
 dull and monotonous. A green plot in front, divided from the 
 house by a broad gravel walk, and ending in a shrubbery, a few 
 flower-beds close to the house, and in the distance some dull 
 fields fringed with poplars ; — all this under a sky nearly always 
 grey, and with a temperature both moist and cold, did not prove 
 particularly attractive to people so long accustomed to Naples 
 and Italian skies. And although it may be said that sucli a 
 
A SISTER'S ST0B7. 267 
 
 landscape harmonized as well with this phase of our lives as 
 Naples had done with the previous one, it is very certain that a 
 less dull and depressing view Avould have been good for Alexan- 
 drine, who so quickly regained her former intense enjoyment of 
 beautiful scenery, and still more so for my father — always keenly 
 alive" to such influences — and who soon suffered in health from 
 this cause even more than from the chmate. It may perhaps be 
 thought that too much space has been given to these details, but 
 it seemed advisable to draw out fully the circumstances then 
 bearing upon Alexandrine's life, and the story now continued 
 through the medium of a correspondence which will supply the 
 place of her manuscript. 
 
 My short stay at Boury was drawing to a close, and we were 
 about to separate again for a considerable time, when the last 
 part of our visit was saddened by a bad accident which happened 
 to my brother Charles.. By a singular coincidence, on the anni- 
 versary of the day that my mother and Olga had been over- 
 turned, and nearly killed, — the 17th of November — Charles met 
 with the same disaster, and nearly at the same spot broke his 
 leg. The fracture was so serious that at the first moment the 
 surgeons spoke of amputation. This new anxiety painfully dis- 
 turbed the sweet, sad peace of our home, and while it was still 
 at its height, a letter from London brought my husband an order 
 to start immediately for Lisbon. He was directed to sail from 
 England on the 30th of November, and to do that it was necessary 
 to leave Boury the very same evening. My Journal relates at 
 length all the sad details of that day and those which followed ; 
 my father's grief and reluctance to part with me, his proposal 
 that I should stay in France, in which case he would have him- 
 self taken me later to Lisbon, my husband's perplexity, my 
 mother's fortitude in advising me to go with him, which lent me 
 strength to resist my father's entreaties — my sister's sorrow, and 
 the comfort afforded by the Abbe Gerbet. I find recorded our 
 assembling together in the chapel at eleven o'clock at night, our 
 departure in the midst of so many depressing circumstances, and 
 finally the storm, which after we had hurried away from Boury, 
 kept us at Boulogne for eleven days unable to cross the Channel ! 
 I did not return to France for a year and a half, and during that 
 time what took place at Boury is related in the following letters. 
 It so happened, therefore, that these very partings, which then 
 seemed so cruelly long and frequent during the few years we 
 spent on earth together, I now look back upon with thankful- 
 ness, for they were the means of accumulating that store of 
 precious recollections which enable me to draw a faithful like- 
 ness of my departed loved ones, and moreover to allow their own 
 words to speak for themselves. 
 
268 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 EUGl^NIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 * Boury, November 27th, 1836. 
 * You are gone then, our dear old, pretty little sister ! How 
 pleasant it was to have you ! I do so love you, and should have 
 been so glad not to have let you go. We are often separated now, 
 Pauhne, after having been so long inseparable ! May God soon 
 bring us together again ! Our intimacy is so delightful, and our 
 friendship, including as it does Alex, such a blessing! What 
 kind of passage will you have this evening ? I feel anxious 
 about it. What a sad parting we had. There was something so 
 mournful and strange about it. Those farewells in the chapel 
 and the blessing given by the Abbe Gerbet were more like what 
 we read of in books than what happens in real life. And what 
 is the meaning of these dreadful things we hear about several 
 English having been assassinated in Lisbon ? May God protect 
 you ! If Augustus is likely to be in any peril, we cannot regret 
 that you went with him, for no doubt it was the duty of a 
 ^'■muger de hien^^ (a good wife).* If anything had happened to 
 him I should like to know what we should have done with you. 
 And so once more I beg of God to keep you safe, my two dear 
 ones, and I do so with perfect trust. There is bad news from 
 Naples. The world is in truth a gloomy place, and there is sad- 
 ness everywhere, both in countries and in families. Pauline, it 
 is pleasant to know that in a few years we shall be out of it, for 
 the longest life is short, and God has mercifully ordained it thus. 
 I love you unspeakably, and I do not want any other interest 
 but to watch your life and to help Alexandrine to be patient. If 
 it is God's will, I should like not to be cumbered with thoughts 
 of my own happiness and personal interests. I belong ^o you, 
 my two dear sisters, and I should like to leave you only to go to 
 God. And oh ! do not be angry ! There I would go without 
 even regretting you.' 
 
 ' December 14th. — Now you are on the other side of that 
 horrid sea ! I am very glad of it, though I seemed to be with 
 you still as long as you were on this side of the Channel. But 
 anyhow, may God's blessing follow you across every sea and 
 through all kinds of storms, both moral and physical ! I send 
 you the cantiques. Are we not well off to have these flowers 
 strewn in our path by one who knows so well how to teach 
 us that the most fragrant of all nosegays is gathered in death ! 
 The few days of life glide sweetly by, while we think of the 
 great Eternal Day. Farewell, my dear angel ! Once again, 
 
 * Quoted from a comedy of Moratia, which we read in Spanish at Boury. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 may G-od hear and grant my prayer, now and until my death: 
 namely, that my whole share of happiness may be given and 
 added to yours ; that all your days may be happy days, and if 
 possible, that you may reap in Heaven the reward of your faith 
 and love alone , and not the fruits of suffering and trials ! ' 
 
 ' December 27th. — I missed you, I cannot say how much, at 
 our Midnight Mass. If you had been there, my enjoyment 
 would have been complete. The Altar was covered with candles 
 and flowers, then grandmamma's beautiful carpet was spread 
 upon the Altar-steps, and up to the rails ; the piano was just 
 outside by the door, and the singing a httle better than usual, 
 for we had Alex, Constance, and Desiree* for our choir, whom 
 I had drilled most wonderfully, while Alexandrine, Olga, and 
 I took parts — and such parts, too ! — In short, my father was 
 perfectly amazed at the perfect music and the general effect of 
 the flowers, candles, incense, and above all, of a new vestment 
 from Paris, and two choir- boys in white surplices and long blue 
 ribbons, once beloiiffing to my father's Order of the Saint Esprit^ 
 which mamma had made over to as. During the three Masses 
 we sang the Adeste^ the Adoremus, and the Magnificat in parts — 
 most splendidly — and then Jesu vne siissf and Evviva Mana at 
 the end ; but what will quite set us up is an organ coming from 
 Paris ; there will then be nothing to wish for in the little chapel. 
 I thought of you at midnight, my dear Pauline. ! may God 
 bless you during your passage^ and bless you always ! ' 
 
 MONS. DE LA FERRONNATS TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Boury, January, 6th, 1837, 
 ' I owe you a good many letters, my dear Pauline, and I am 
 afraid, though you are so accustomed to it, that my long silence 
 may have given you pain. I own you have good reason to com- 
 plain of me, and I do not know if you will blame me less when I 
 tell you the only reason which hindered me from writing sooner. 
 Your departure grieved me much more than you imagined, and 
 my grief had several causes which I will not enumerate ; first, 
 because I do not wish to make you sad, and also because it might 
 look like a reproach to you or your husband, a thing as far from 
 my feelings as from my thoughts. You, my poor dear child, 
 have only done your duty as any other wife, as your dear mother 
 placed in the same position would have done, if at your age I 
 had left her free to choose ; glad enough would she have been to 
 have accompanied me in all my travels and voyages. I repeat, 
 
 * Village girls. 
 
 t Sung by the girls at Eatisbon, and spoken of by Alexandrine in her letters 
 from Pisa. 
 
270 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 my dear one, that as the choice was left to you, you could only 
 act as you have done, and your husband has not any more than 
 you behaved unkindly to us. I hope, therefore, that you will 
 dismiss from your minds all idea that I am annoj^ed at your de- 
 parture. If I feel any resentment, it shows itself only by an 
 increase of tenderness towards you both. All that I beg of you 
 is to be indulgent to your poor old father, and bear in mind, with- 
 out grieving over it, that at my age long separations give rise to 
 serious reflections. We think that you must have reached the 
 end of your long voyage yesterday, but I need not say how impa- 
 tiently we look for your first letter. . 
 
 ' For ten days the weather here has been gloomy and very cold, 
 but no wind. The papers, however, are filled with terrible 
 accounts of the disasters on the coast, which show that the stormy 
 weather is not over, as we hoped. You know how apt we are to 
 be anxious, especially your mother, so you can imagine the state 
 we shall be in till we get your first letter from liisbon. As it is, 
 we are uneasy at not having had one from Falmouth. It would 
 not be like you not to have w^ritten. What can have happened 
 that we get no tidings ? You can guess how painfully anxious 
 we are, but we trust you to the protection of God, for we hope 
 that He watches over our dear good child, whom we pray for daily 
 most earnestly. This trust, which our dear Abbe Gerbet en- 
 forces with his warm faith and loving eloquence, calms our 
 fears, or at least enables us to control them. We are afraid that 
 they might look like mistrust or murmuring. Nevertheless, I 
 look for your first letter from Lisbon with anxious impatience. 
 I am too much occupied about you to-day to write about our- 
 selves, and besides, the sisters write to you so often, that they 
 leave me nothing whatever to say. And again, you know what 
 our life is, its perfect regularity, its pleasant monotony are just 
 what constitute its principal charm. It has in my mind the 
 great advantage that one day is like another. Our bright, kind, 
 thoughtful, and comforting Abbe Gerbet introduces an unspeak- 
 able charm into our morning and evening conversations. With 
 him science and metaphysics lose their dryness and asperity. 
 Virtue preached by this excellent man penetrates the soul, fills 
 
 the mind with light, and goes straight to the heart. X used 
 
 to say at N^aples that I was his corlcscrew, that I was always 
 drawing him out. This is far more the case with me and the 
 Abbe Gerbet. My ignorance overwhelms him with questions, 
 objections, subtleties, and sophistry, but nothing discourages or 
 wearies him, he answers everything, and in a manner which 
 makes me feel while he is talking — and I make him talk till his 
 throat is quite parched — that my heart is enlarged, my mind 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 271 
 
 expanded, and my thoughts elevated to a degree I should never 
 have thought possible. ! if our Divine religion was always 
 taught and explained as it is by this true Apostle, it would soon 
 be universally received ! The presence of this admirable man 
 amongst us is so great a blessing, that I look upon it as a special 
 miracle of God's goodness, and a token that our trials will soon 
 end. This comforting thought fills me with devout thankful- 
 ness, especially when I think of you, my precious one, whose 
 happiness is immensely necessary to us. But for God's sake, my 
 child, write to us soon. 
 
 ' Charles goes on as well as possible, but his patience is well- 
 nigh exhausted. It will be ten days before he can get up, and 
 ten more before he can be moved to Paris, where he is anxious 
 to be. Farewell, darling Pauline, my dear excellent child. 
 Forgive your old father for having allowed you to think for so 
 long a time that he was angry. Give my best love to Augustus, 
 that he may see I am not a bit more cross with him than with 
 you, and be sure, so long as you are both happy, that I shall 
 always be well satisfied. 
 
 ' Good-bye again, my dear child. I will now close my letter 
 and give it to Eugenie. Alexandrine has taken a new lease of 
 life since she has had the benefit of the Abbe Gerbet's conversa- 
 tion and instructions. He stimidates and interests her, and I 
 see her mind is regaining its wonted activity. Moreover, she 
 sews and knits, whether with skill or not I cannot tell, but I 
 know she makes an enormous quantity of caps and petticoats, 
 visits the poor, and gives them money, visits the sick, and gives 
 them receipts, and even has gone so far as to prescribe for them 
 herself The day before yesterday she rashly ordered a bread 
 poultice, and yesterday a mustard plaster ! 
 
 ' Thank you, and God bless you ! My dear child, we have 
 just received together your letters from London and Falmouth. 
 You are a good, excellent daughter, whom God will love and 
 take care of. Yesterday you must have reached Lisbon ; you will 
 write to us to-day, and ten days hence we shall get your letter.' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 * Boury, January 7th, 1837. 
 ' To-day, thank God ! we have had your letters from Fal- 
 mouth. It was indeed high time ! The accounts of storms and 
 snow-falls, and your silence, began to make us very anxious. 
 Dear PauHne, when I read your letter, I felt to love you so 
 miuch, and you seemed so very far ofi"! I thought of our former 
 life spent always together, and now we are always divided. If 
 one of us were to die away from the other it would be sad indeed. 
 
272 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 Let US pray that at that time we may be together. I like to 
 think that you are now on shore, but we shall still say the 
 prayers for travellers till we get your first letter from Lisbon. 
 
 ! my very dear little sister, I hope nothing will happen to 
 you ! I love you so dearly that the tears come into my eyes 
 while I am writing these words.' 
 
 • Boury, January 27th, 1837. 
 * My Dearest, — At last we have tidings of you, and how much 
 good your dear long letters have done us ! Dear Pauline, when 
 
 1 look over your letters it makes me sad to see how often we 
 have been separated lately, but you were quite right to go with 
 Augustus ; you would have been too sorry now not to have done 
 so. I feel everything is for the best, and this is, I hope, because I 
 try more and more to will only what God wills. The letter you 
 sent me back surprised me when I read it again. I am changed 
 since the days when I wrote it, and most of all with regard to 
 castle-building. For a year past, I do not think I have once 
 sketched out a plan of life, or any combination of circumstances 
 of so-called happiness on earth. Sometimes I find that when 
 such ideas cross my mind they seem altogether new. What I 
 now talk over with Alexandrine is how we shall live when we 
 are seventy or seventy-five years old, she remembering exactly 
 the hours and minutes, and I forgetting whole months and years. 
 We shall have a little dog, take tea, and three days in the week 
 have no dinner. Such is our plan, and many a time we laugh 
 over these schemes for our old age. Poor Alex ! If she should 
 really live to be sixty, what will the short time of her married 
 life look like, seen through the vista of that length of years ! 
 However, if it is so, it will be because it is God's will, and we 
 shall find it good, like everything else He does. Good-night.' 
 
 EUGENIE TO THE MARQUISE DE BAIGECOURT. 
 
 ' You ask what I am doing. I do not know much about it, 
 except that I never find my life dull. I read, write, sing — 
 sometimes I have a sore throat, and sometimes a headache. I 
 have a class of little girls for catechism, I go out, and I visit the 
 poor sick people in the village. Sometimes I feel so merry that 
 I laugh from morning till night, and then again I am often sad, 
 when life seems interminably long, and fall of sighing and 
 groaning. But what I most truly feel is cheerfulness and peace 
 of mind — a blessing for which I thank God every day. Yes, 
 Flavie, I do feel at peace, and nobody can describe what this is 
 to those who have at any time known the contrary. It is the 
 greatest of gifts, for if real it certainly comes from God.' 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 273 
 
 TO THE SAME, A LITTLE LATER. 
 
 ' What can I say, but that I am calm, and that my sonl is as 
 peaceful as my life ? There is nothing to be told about me, but 
 that I am here, that I am well, that I sing, and play admirably 
 on the organ ; read, write, think, laugh very often, have neither 
 regrets nor wishes, and love my friends more truly and tenderly 
 than ever. I hope this last sentence will touch you ' 
 
 MADAME DE LA FERRONNAYS TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' February 11th, 1837. 
 * After having been so anxious about your passage, and been 
 tossing with you on those great waves, and just when I was at 
 last resting in the thought of your being on shore, to my great 
 grief I have to tell you of Richard's death.* You must have 
 been very much shocked, very much affected, by this sad news. 
 Is it not difficult to realize that on that side, too, all is at an end ? 
 A poor young wife, formed, as it seemed, to be happy, and to 
 enjoy happiness, is now thrown into the deepest of all sorrows ; 
 fall of sadness, obliged to attend to the most wearisome business, 
 and perhaps to go through difficulties of every kind. And ima- 
 gine the affliction of his poor mother, who was so used to nurse 
 her son, and had brought him through so many illnesses, and now 
 has been away from him at the last ! What can ever comfort 
 her ? I speak of comfort, but resignation is the only word. 
 Poor Marief writes herself to-day to Alexandrine. She says 
 that Richard dictated a letter to his mother on Monday. He 
 was suffering from influenza, but hoped soon to be well, when at 
 eleven o'clock that night his poor wife had the courage to tell 
 him of his danger. He had not the least idea of it, but imme- 
 diately prepared to receive the Sacraments, and showed the 
 utmost faith and submission to God's will. When quite cold and 
 motionless he was still praying with fervour. Whole pages 
 might be written about this sad event. Now that delightful 
 house at Naples,]: which holds so marked a place in our recollec- 
 tions, has become a ruin which can never be restored, whose tra- 
 ditions will live in our memory alone. Everything that ends for 
 ever is so depressing ! I should never, probably, have seen that 
 house again, but still I liked to think of it as it was. Now every- 
 thing at Naples seems so gloomy, for although the remembrance 
 of my poor Albert had already thrown a shade over those bright 
 spots, still my heart rejoiced at the sunshine lighting up the house 
 
 * Sir Eichard Acton. 
 
 f Marie de Dalberg, Lady Acton, afterwards Countess Granville. 
 X Sir Eichard Acton's, where Albert, Alexandrine, and I were married. 
 
 T 
 
274 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 of my friends, and the thought of their happiness did me good. 
 Now the sight of misery on all sides seems to deepen the abyss 
 which encircles ourselves. We reckon that to-day that poor 
 mother will hear the sad news. But we will not dwell upon 
 this mournful subject. How are you getting on, my child, who 
 are the joy and brightness of my life ? Your father is delighted 
 with your letters, and is now satisfied that you did well to go. 
 He sees that the difficulties are less than he imagined, and now 
 the dreadful passage is over, he admits that it was right. You 
 have been justified by the event, and let nothing disturb your 
 happiness. You cannot be too happy to please us, and I say 
 again, you are the only bright spot in my horizon ! ' 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 ' Boury, March 26th, 1837. 
 
 ' My precious Child, — I want to tell you a little about our 
 Easter. Then I shall leave off to write to several other people ; 
 and afterwards return to you. -How did you spend your Holy 
 Week? I hope as happily as we did. The excellent young 
 Priest whom the Bishop of Beauvais sent us, went through every- 
 thing as well as possible. He preached an excellent sermon on 
 the Passion on Holy Thursday afternoon, and this morning again. 
 To be sure we had no Tenebrae, but we said them in our own 
 pretty peaceful chapel. On Good Friday your father read us 
 Bourdalone's admirable discourse on the Passion, and yesterday 
 again he read to us both in the morning and afternoon. To-day 
 he read to everybody in the house Bossuet's sermon on the Re- 
 surrection. And then, what do you think we had at Mass in the 
 way of music ? Neither more nor less than Haydn's Gloria, and 
 admirably performed, too. The effect of Eugenie's voice in the 
 solo was beautiful. She sings as well as ever again, and has re- 
 covered the power and sweetness of her notes. This comes of her 
 having practised a great deal lately, and I am happy to say 
 without being the worse for it. Alexandrine's voice also is 
 stronger, and her high notes are sweet, true, and fall. The dear 
 children find that this beautiful music, instead of disturbing them 
 on Communion- days, helps to raise their souls to Grod, and 
 awakens holy thoughts. To-day, therefore, at Mass they sang 
 the Gloria, and after Communion, at the end of the Mass, the 
 Magnificat, which is to me the sublimest of all thanksgivings. 
 
 ' Alexandrine and Eugenie had dressed their scholars in white, 
 and the children came in to show themselves before Mass. They 
 are doing more good than can be conceived, and of a sort that is 
 most useful to themselves. On your birthday I intend giving a 
 dinner to the poorest of our neighbours, that is to say, foqd will 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 275 
 
 be distributed to them, which they can carry to their own homes. 
 The heart is ten times more aUve to charity in the country than 
 in towns. I have always forgotten to tell you of our Carnival 
 amusements, which, as they were quite innocent, were prolonged 
 through Lent. I had given Bertha* on ISTew-Year's-Day an 
 immense white dog — a toy — which she left here when she went 
 to Paris, This dog goes from bed to bed, and from room to room, 
 and your sisters never seem to weary of the joke. They make it 
 appear in all sorts of characters, and dress it up in all kinds of 
 ways, and always with the same success. Two days ago, when I 
 came to bed, I found it sitting before the fire, wrapped in a 
 dressing-gown, a shawl on its head, a pipe in its mouth, and a 
 newspaper in its hand. Thanks to my sharp eyes,t I thought at 
 first it was your father ! I was surprised that he did not move, 
 and even felt frightened for a moment, but only just long enough 
 for the joke. Yesterday evening, on going up to bed, I saw a 
 Httle hump-backed fairy sitting by my curtain, which made me 
 start. It was Sifflotte — the children's name for this famous dog — 
 whom Olga had covered with a shawl, put a hood on his head, 
 and her knitting in his paws. You see it is an endless source of 
 fun, and poor dear Olga does not get tired of it. I do admire her 
 for being so bright, so contented with her dull life, not even giving 
 a thought to the amusements from which she is cut off, and which 
 you all so enjoyed at the same age. 'J 
 
 Eugenie also told me in her letters of several jokes of the 
 same kind, and especially of some mystification she had con- 
 trived, and which had taken Alexandrine in, and then added : — 
 ' Dear Pauline, what will you say of these diversions from our 
 habitual gravity ? They are whimsical enough, and not in keep- 
 ing with the state of poor Alexandrine's feelings. But then, you 
 know, she does not of her own accord turn her mind to anything 
 which would distract her from her grief. These jokes occupy her 
 thoughts for a few minutes, and make her laugh. They do not 
 make her less unhappy, but they take off her mind for a few 
 minutes from the thought of her unhappiness. Often after these 
 little fits of gaiety she has returns of gloom. The fact is, she can 
 never be really happy again, and thus can only have moments 
 of gaiety. Well, in sixty years we shall all be dead. Amen I' 
 
 COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT TO ALEXANDRINE. 
 
 • Venice, November 27th, 1836. 
 ' Dear Alexandrine, — You will have received, before this letter 
 reaches you, everything you asked me for in yours of October 
 
 * Berthe de la Ferronnays, then a year old, now Vicomtesse de Dreuse Brege. 
 f Madame de la Ferronnays was extremely short-sighted. 
 X Olga was seventeen at this time. 
 
 T 2 
 
276 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 17th, that is to say, every letter I had in my possession of Albert's 
 and of yours. I begged Cornudet to look for them, and then send 
 them to yon. He will also have told you why I did not write 
 sooner, and amongst other reasons that I had been ill, and also 
 your letter did not reach me till long after date. I do not very 
 well remember what you took and what you left before you went 
 away, but I told Cornudet to give you everything he could find in 
 the place where I kept all his letters and yours. I hope you have 
 found in them much which must be soothing and precious to 
 you. I take a great interest in this work, which seems to me a 
 direct inspiration, the accomplishing of which will have an un- 
 speakable charm in spite of all its sadness. But while sending 
 you everything you wish for, I protest solemnly as to my rights 
 of property. I depend both upon your friendship and integrity 
 for giving me back what I only lend you. I am too proud and 
 too glad to have been so trusted, and so tenderly loved by 
 Albert, to be willing to give up, even to you, these many and 
 precious memorials of that trust and affection. I told you that I 
 would make you a present of two or three of the letters, which 
 mention you in so special and striking a way as to become sacred 
 and peculiar treasures to you. These you may keep, but you 
 must send me back all the rest. 
 
 ' To return to your letter of October 17th. I will not conceal 
 from you, my dear friend, that I was a little grieved and even 
 wounded at your long silence ; but I forgive you at last, chiefly 
 on account of those admirable, sublime, and delightful words of 
 Albert's, which, hke a good sister, you copied and sent me. I do 
 not use these expressions in any theatrical sense, for they simply 
 express my thoughts. These are things which, if they were in a 
 printed book, as poor people say, would be admired by the whole 
 world, — so, at least, it seems to me. I know of nothing finer in 
 Rene, or in any of the great writers who have described the work- 
 ings of the heart. To me there seems something wonderfully 
 satisfactory, and even, I think, honourable to the human mind, 
 in the knowledge that such beautiful thoughts arose quite simply 
 and spontaneously in the pure and modest mind of a young man 
 unknown to all literary fame, without the least idea of publica- 
 tion, only occupied with Grod and his love, and never dreaming 
 that passages were flowing from his pen which the greatest genius 
 in the world might have coveted. I know nothing more touching 
 than that address to you of the 26th of August, 1832, " Is it not 
 true, my angel, that I love you right well ?'" It is one of those 
 bursts of feeling which, to my mind, have not their like ; and then 
 there are thoughts of another kind, which it is astonishing to find 
 in the Journal of a young lover, " This wearisome worldy which 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 277 
 
 offei's us nothing great hut its own e7ivptiness.'' Yes, I repeat it, 
 apart from the tender interest I feel, when I reflect that it is my 
 friend and brother Albert who wrote these things, I am thankful 
 to God for having given such beautiful thoughts to a young man 
 who never went beyond the limits of his home circle, and had no 
 other teachers than religion and love. 
 
 ' I wish you had seen the tears running down Anna's* cheeks 
 when I read these papers to her ; you would not have thought it 
 an unacceptable tribute. We were both reminded of our Abbe 
 Gerbet's admirable words, which apply so well to Albert, " For 
 my part, I listen more attentively to the utterances of a holy soul, 
 than to the voice of genius.'^ 
 
 ' Armed with the directions which you gave in your last letter, 
 we made a pilgrimage to all the places, and visited all the people 
 you mentioned. We began with the Gasa Paolinelli.f Those 
 good people gave us a most cordial reception, and seemed to take 
 the utmost interest in your story, having heard of your conversion 
 from Brera, J We visited Albert's room with the deepest emotion, 
 and recited, at least I did, in a low voice, the De Profmidis, and 
 lived over in thought those sad heart-breaking scenes which had 
 taken place in that room. It is a pretty apartment, now occupied 
 by the Marquis Gherardi. We should have liked, for all sorts of 
 reasons, to inhabit it ourselves. Then we went to the Visitan- 
 dines, saw the Superioress, and spoke at great length about you. 
 She seemed much interested in Madame de la Ferronnays, but 
 was very cold to us, though I had taken my wife with me, that 
 she might see I was a respectabie married man, but it did not 
 succeed. The good lady thought, I believe, that I was not 
 a Legitimist, for her great object during the conversation seemed 
 to be to make cuts at Philippe and the France of July. On the 
 the other hand. Padre Catullo received and treated us in the 
 most friendly manner possible. We went to Confession to him, 
 and to Communion in his beautiful church on S. Elizabeth's 
 Day. He is a charming man to my mind, and dotes upon you 
 all. '■^ F la Fugenia, il Ferdinando, e tutti quanti.^^ We talked 
 a long time about you, and especially about your conversion and 
 former doubts. I do not remember if it was he who once said to 
 you, in reference to the salvation of Protestants in good faith, 
 " Per me non lo posso credere.''^ (For my part, I cannot believe it.) 
 He does not seem to me to hold any such opinions. I also saw 
 Brera, who was touched by your message, and is very much 
 attached to you. He told me that Caraba had become a waiter at 
 
 * Madame de Montalembert. 
 
 t The last house in which Albert and Alexandrine lived at Venice. 
 
 J Albert's doctor. 
 
273 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 a cafe. Then there was the good old Gamba, the conceited 
 Perrucchini-Ronianini, the musician, who makes out that he 
 taught Ferdinando German, the English Williams, &c., &c., who 
 all spoke of you with great interest, and desired to be remem- 
 bered.' 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 • Florence, March 3rd, 1837. 
 ' My dear little Sister, — ^You have good reason to complain of 
 your brother Montal. I own myself guilty, and very guilty, for 
 not having written to you for so long — not so guilty as you were 
 yourself during the latter months of last year, but still very 
 guilty, and I fully admit it. However, you must remember that 
 I was at Rome with my wife, that I had only two months to 
 spend there, and that during that time it was requisite to see 
 everything, and moreover to sJiow everything ; that besides this, 
 I had no end of important business to arrange for myself, for the 
 Abbe Lacordaire, for a Polish religious house founded by Count 
 Plater, and though last, not least, for the Abbe Gerbet. You 
 forgive me then, do you not, dear and good friend, on condition 
 that I repent and do better for the future, which I promise with 
 all my heart ? Tell the Abbe Gerbet, that in spite of his stay at 
 Boury — where he neglects, not merely his letters but his work, 
 having published, after six months' silence, but three pages in 
 the JJiuversitS Gatholique, and only one fragment of the complete 
 refutations [of M. de la Mennais] which is expected from him ; 
 tell him, I say, that his article in the January number is admi- 
 rable, that several persons have written to me that it excels 
 everything he has yet written, and though he had not the polite- 
 ness to send it me, I got it before I left Rome, and took it the 
 next day to the Pope, with whom I left it, and that His Holiness 
 was much interested in it, and read aloud in my presence the 
 whole of the first page. The Pope seemed specially pleased with 
 the paragraph which so magnificently opens the article, and in 
 which he says that all M. de la Mennais' old friends have gone 
 over to the right hand of the Vicar of Christ. He took it away 
 to his own rooms, read it to several persons, and gave it to Car- 
 dinal Lambruschini. Tell all this, if you please, to the silent 
 Abbe, and if he is not turned into a tree in the park at Boury, I 
 think it will interest him. The Pope gave us each a beautiful 
 Crucifix and a number of rosaries for our friends, of which you 
 shall have your share, if you behave well to me till I see you 
 again, I did not get your letter of the 8th of December till I 
 was in Rome, and consequently could do none of the things in 
 Venice that you asked me. I never saw M. B. except at a 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 279 
 
 distance, rowing in a gondola, in bright yellow gloves and a 
 blouse. 
 
 ' We left Venice on the 8th, after receiving Communion and 
 Padre Catullo's blessing, who loves you and Eugenie as he does 
 his own two eyes. We went through a short quarantine at 
 Rovigo, and rushed at full speed to Rome, to get there by Christ- 
 mas, and to see and enjoy that wonderfully grand Pontifical 
 Mass at S. Peter's. We looked with the most afiectionate 
 interest at the house under the Trinita da Monte, where Albert 
 saw you for the first time, and where I, too, dearest, made ac- 
 quaintance with you. I did not go in, for it was full of English 
 people. The person who spoke of you with the deepest interest 
 and tender affection was that good Princess Volkonsky. She 
 listened with a sympathy which went to my heart, to all I told 
 her of our holy recollections of last June ; of your conversion, 
 your first Communion and its circumstances, and your meeting 
 with your mother ; and she told me some charming things of 
 your stay at Sorrento. I spoke, too, of Albert's Journal. Have 
 you nothing more to send me out of the Green Book ? You are 
 obliged to love me, for whether you will or not, I am mixed up 
 with every dear and important recollection of your life. I read 
 Dante with my wife, and at every page I think of our evenings 
 at Pisa. I shall soon be passing through that place, where I 
 owed you and him so many pleasant hours, and where you, too, 
 in spite of many anxieties, enjoyed your happiness so much. 
 Think how wretched it is for me to leave Italy just at the 
 loveliest time of year, having only half seen it, and with a wife 
 who, young as she is, has a wonderful appreciation of art and its 
 remains. 
 
 ' Tell me something of your brother-in-law Charles, and the 
 Cravens, to whom I am going to write a letter that I shall send 
 you. I visited the Villa Mattel and the catacombs of S. 
 Sebastian, with the keenest interest. And so your sister 
 Pauline's sketch has just been published.* I should like to have 
 been at Lisbon when No. 7 of the Universite arrived ! 
 
 ' What a long time we are going to be separated : we must 
 keep up a brisk correspondence this summer. And when will our 
 good set of friends meet together again — that circle of affectionate 
 and Cathohc friends who have Albert for their protector in Heaven? 
 
 ' Perhaps Providence delays this meeting till we are old, that 
 the frosts of age may not entirely chill the enthusiasm of youth. 
 Farewell, my very dear sisters and friends. My wife loves you 
 with her whole heart.' 
 
 * A few pages on the Catacombs, and written in 1830, and sent to the UniveV' 
 siU Cathohque by the Abbe Gerbet and my sisters without my knowledge. 
 
280 A SISTER'S STORt. 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 'Boury, April 12th, 1837. 
 
 * My dear, much-loved Sister, — To-day we all four went to 
 Communion for your birthday, and our good wishes for you were 
 equally sincere, if not all alike intense, for it is said that no love 
 is so tender and strong as a mother's. Yes, so it is said, but I 
 cannot believe it, for I am sure that I should never have loved 
 my children as much as I loved Albert. But to return to my 
 subject. I was satisfied with my prayers for you more than I 
 generally am with my own prayers, for I think they were fervent. 
 Do you remember this day three years ago, at Naples ? Only 
 three years, and I am now living in another world ! But, thank 
 G-od, the same star — the thought of my Albert — shines over 
 both these worlds, and more brightly than ever. Albert, whom 
 I love more than I can express ! Pauline, I have been thinking 
 what a magnificent thing love is. It does not signify on earth, 
 at least not very much, whether we see or speak to those we 
 love. We hope to meet again, we know we have the same 
 thoughts — we can tell each other by means of letters that our 
 affection is unchanged. It is not a separation like that of two 
 beings, one in this world and the other beyond it. There is 
 something wonderful in that power of sympathy, even when it is 
 evinced in persons who love each other, and are parted on earth, 
 but what is it in comparison with the sympathy which lives on, 
 defying absence, and, as it were, uniting between time and eter- 
 nity, some frail human being and a creature raised up to be an 
 Angel, connecting together the little world that we see, and the 
 world which it has not entered into the heart of man to conceive ! 
 And love — a love blessed by God — has power to overleap this 
 gulf, seeing nothing and hearing nothing, and when all things 
 seem ended for ever — it yet cannot even for a moment pause, 
 doubting, but being itself convinced that it will live for ever, it 
 lends faith to the soul to believe in eternal happiness. 
 
 ' I dreamt last night that I exclaimed to Albert, " My only 
 Angel!'' with all the strength of my love for him, and that it 
 made him happy to hear it. He is unceasingly in my mind — 
 and God also, I hope — but I have now less time than I had for 
 thinking over the past. We are so busy that the days fly, and 
 it is certainly more amusing, as well as more satisfactory, to do 
 good than to do nothing, and so we have not a dull moment. It 
 is also useful to believe that sorrow and all kinds of sufferings are 
 the lot of this life. It gives great peace, I assure you, and 
 Eugenie feels it as I do, to be convinced that afilictions must 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 281 
 
 meet us at every step, and the gleams of happiness we enjoy are 
 only meant to cheer ns on our way. If you only knew how this 
 helps me to bear everything almost with a smile, you would 
 forgive me for looking upon the world as a grave-yard, where 
 every one suffers, has suffered, or will suffer. I admit that these 
 are sad ideas, but they are true, and truer than any others. Sad 
 realities do not grow less real because we shut our eyes that we 
 may not look them in the face. Would it not be better to comfort 
 ourselves with the idea of what hes before us beyond this gloomy 
 life, which is merely like a dark cavern we have to pass on our 
 Tvay to Paradise ? 
 
 ' It was not God Who made death and suffering. I always 
 like to repeat this to our poor village people, for I am often 
 afraid our dear good Lord is slandered. Forgive me, my dear 
 one, for speaking of these sad things to-day, but you know reli- 
 gion turns sadness into comfort and hope, whereas without it, 
 when we come to think, everything happy and bright is sad. 
 This is in short the real truth of the matter. But I have very 
 little faith. Pray, my dear Pauline, ask God to give me more. 
 My dearest, I was surprised to find that you thought me quite 
 cured of my scruples — circles, as we used to call them — when 
 just lately I have had an attack of spiritual fever ; I lost my head, 
 feeling sometimes elated and sometimes in despair about myself. 
 It all comes from my stupid imagination ; the Abbe Gerbet will 
 cure me in time by forbidding me to analyze. This reminds me 
 that he said I was to let you have a decade which I made some 
 time ago, and which I had a scruple in sending, because I knew 
 you would praise it. Now there may be pride in telhng you 
 that I did not send it on that account, for that is boasting ; and 
 in saying that it was boasting, and that I concealed a thing in 
 order not to be praised for it, there is pride again ; and in acknow- 
 ledging that there is pride in my confession of having boasted, 
 and that I concealed a thing not to be praised ! — ! I am out of 
 breath ! — I shall go distracted! But I only wished to prove to 
 you that I have not lost the art of conjuring up scruples, or of 
 fabricating circles, and that on this point we are sisters still. Here, 
 then, is my decade — but no, it would take up too much time ; if 
 I have any left, I will put it in at the end of the letter.* 
 
 ' Thank you, my dear sister, for wishing so much to see me 
 again. I, too, wish it. I think it quite natural that you would 
 not like me to die, but your fright when I had the influenza 
 touched me very much. I dare say I shall live a long time 
 
 * I have lost that decade, but I remember that it was mado wp of ten different 
 flowers, and that to each was attached the idea of some virtue and a little 
 prayer. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 and, with God's help, I hope patiently. I am not in such a 
 hurry to die now, though I should still like it, and I hope the 
 feeling will last till I reach the next world.' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' April lOth, 1837. 
 
 * I am sure yon must have thought a great deal about us 
 yesterday, prayed for us a great deal, grieved and hoped as we 
 did.* Yeserday, the third anniversary of that poor marriage, 
 so joyful at the time, so full of the promise of happiness, but 
 from the first day so saddened by anxious care ! And Alex- 
 andrine had to spend that anniversary without him, and now 
 ten months have passed away since that happy life came to an 
 end. We all went to Communion, and prayed and wept, but 
 thanked God too, and it was a Thanksgiving Mass that the Abbe 
 Gerbet said. He made Alexandrine return thanks on this day — 
 for Albert's love, for her marriage, and for her reception into 
 the Church. In short, he turned yesterday rather into a day of 
 hope than one of mourning.' 
 
 MADAME DE LA FERRONNATS TO PAULINE. 
 
 * I am sure that you thought much of us and poor dear Alex- 
 andrine on the 17th. 0! what heartbreaking recollections! 
 What bright days seemed then to open before us all, and what 
 an endless source of comfort we should have found in those dear 
 children, so happy in their marriage, and so good ! I cannot tell 
 you how charming and touching Alexandrine was throughout 
 that day. In the midst of her sadness she is so gentle and 
 resigned. After Mass I went to your father's room, where she 
 came to us, and kissed us both most tenderly, without uttering 
 a word, for no words could express what filled her heart at that 
 moment. It is impossible to be a greater darling than she is. 
 The word suave f seems made for her. But, ! in spite of the 
 certainty of our precious child's happiness, how impossible it is 
 not to think of what his enjoyment would have been here, if a 
 few more years had been granted him. I should have been too 
 blessed for this world, if what seemed then to have been my lot 
 had all been realized. To have him here with his Alexandrine, 
 enjoying our home and living with us. ! my God, this would 
 indeed have been too great a delight. And now what gloom 
 takes the place of all that future, so full of sunshine, and which 
 seemed to me beforehand only a matter of course.' 
 
 * The anniversity of Alexandrine's marriage. 
 
 t This word in French is generally applied to perfumes, in that case it means 
 balmy. 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 283 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Boury, May 4th, 1837. 
 
 * My Dearest, — I have received yotir immense letter, and shall 
 answer it presently, but first let ns speak of all those deaths which 
 have taken place, as if to detach us from the world, and oblige 
 ns to be always ready to leave it. You must have been terribly 
 shocked by Antonine's* death, for you heard less about her 
 illness than we did. Even now I can scarcely believe it. I see 
 her before me as she looked on the day she went away, so fresh 
 and bright, and making me promise to go to Lumigny, as soon 
 as she returned. Poor Antonine ! there is now no return for 
 her. I cannot bring myself to pity those who die, but I feel very 
 sad when I think of her parents. I recall poor Mons. de Mun's 
 Tvorshipping looks at her last year, and I fear he must be in a 
 dreadful state. I knew Antonine better than you did, and at 
 Lumigny I quite loved her. She was so affectionate to me ; she 
 foresaw clearly that she should die young, and she regretted Hfe. 
 You know how well I understand the opposite feeling, it is the 
 prevailing one with me; but still, when I see any one die regi'et- 
 ting life, I feel it so acutely for them, that my heart aches, and I 
 think how gladly I would die in his or her place. Antonine 
 knew well that hers was an incurable illness ; she said so to 
 my father and me, and then expressed the wish to become weaned 
 from life. But though she expected to die young, she did not 
 think it would be so soon. She hoped to come back, and now 
 she is dead, and so suddenly ! She had made her Easterf a few 
 days before, so that there was nothing terrible in her sudden 
 death, on the contrary, it may be looked upon as a mercy, for as 
 she regretted life so much, it might have been too great a trial 
 for her to watch the approach of death. As it is, she found her- 
 self in the presence of God before she had had time to feel the 
 pain of quitting this world. If she has anything still to expiate 
 in the next, let us pray earnestly for her that Grod may have 
 mercy on her soul. There has been another death which will 
 grieve you very much. Poor Helene;]: has also left this sad 
 world. God knows well what He does, and as He has promised 
 to reward those that weep, He surely knows that sorrow is good 
 for the soul. It certainly draws one nearer to Him than joy. 
 Mamma was afraid that these two deaths would affect you so 
 much, that I ought to have made some one break the news to 
 you ; but I, who know that you heard of Albert's death by letter, 
 feel sure that you can bear anything else.' 
 
 * Antonine de Mun, Countess de Biron. 
 
 t Her Easter duties of Confession and Communion. 
 
 1 Helene de Tourzel, Comtesse de Hunolstein, grand-daughter of the Duchesse 
 de Tourzel, gouvernante of the Dauphin andMadamoRoyalejand aunt of Madame 
 de la Ferronnays. 
 
284 A SISTER'S ST0B7. 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 •May 7th, 1837. 
 
 ' Two words only this evening, for I am excessively tired, and 
 must go to bed. We are so busy now, both out of doors and at 
 ' home, that sometimes the whole day goes by without my being 
 able to sit down. All the poor people who die want to see us, 
 all the sick send for us, all who wish to become good come to us, 
 and we go and seek out those who do not want to be good ; which 
 altogether keeps us actively employed, and always on the move. 
 Alas ! what has become of my plan of spending part of the sum- 
 mer at Lumigny, and my friendship with Anton ine that my 
 father so wished me to keep up ? Nothing is certain in this 
 world except uncertainty. In a few days my father starts for 
 Nantes. He will not be long away, but still we do not like to 
 part with him. He is so good, and kinder to us than ever. 
 You cannot think how much his indifference to earthly things 
 increases. Poor dear father ! this is the effect of all the sorrows 
 of the past year. Antonine's death grieved him very much, for 
 you know how he liked her, and if he were not now so com- 
 pletely resigned to everything, this new grief would perhaps 
 have done him harm. Thanks, dear love, for thinking of me so 
 much, for wishing to have me near you, to jog your elbow as yon 
 Bay. How dear you are ! What friends we were when we went 
 out into the world together ! Do you recollect how often we sur- 
 prised peopled by liking to sit next each other, or by exchanging 
 a word in a ball-room ! There may be sisters who love each 
 other as much as we do, but certainly not better — and I like to 
 think that, for my own part, I have loved you both as a friend 
 and a sister, and as much as either can be loved.' 
 
 ' May loth. 
 
 ' I am convinced that the only really happy people are thosd 
 who are not afraid of death. To love death is to hate every- 
 thing that dies, and to long for what is really life. God has 
 made death a punishment, but it is the means through which we 
 attain our reward. ! do not mourn for me when I die ; for if 
 I thank God every day for my birth, it is because if I had not 
 been bom I could not have died. Pauliue, Pauline, may our 
 meeting in Heaven be a blessed one ! ' 
 
 'June let. 
 
 * I can well understand your sorrow at not being with Albert 
 when he died. I thank God very much that I was with him on 
 the journey, and in all his last sufferings. Since the anniversary 
 of our departure from Venice, Alexandrine and I have com- 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 memorated the events of each successive day. On Monday it 
 was a year since she was received into the Church. To-day it is 
 a year since Albert played for the last time on the pianoforte. 
 Whenever he did so latterly there was something inexpressibly 
 melancholy about it. He used to modulate the chords in a way 
 which made one sad in spite of oneself. In the night of May 
 31st, he began to play at about two o'clock in the morning. I 
 was awoke out of my sleep by that music, and not being able at 
 first to imagine what it was, the effect was most painful. I can- 
 not help breaking off writing to read his last words in Alex's 
 book ; and if I go on doing so I shall not be able to fipdsh it in 
 time, for it breaks my heart. Tears oblige me to lay down my 
 pen ; I forget you to dwell upon him, to speak to him, to call 
 him, to ask him where he is, what he is doing, and I cannot help 
 exclaiming, "Why, why may we not see into Heaven?" And 
 now I am in one of my fits of the love of death.' 
 
 ' June 2nd. 
 
 ' You are right in saying that we all seem to be rather nearer 
 to Heaven since Albert is there, and you as much as any of us, 
 dear Pauline. I do not like your way of leaving yourself out. 
 We may well repeat the words Albert wrote : "J. sweet commu- 
 nion begins to exist between Heaven and our souls. ^^ This commu- 
 nion is the greatest happiness on earth. You may talk as you 
 please, but, however happy life may be, nothing I am sure can 
 equal that of leaving it. You must let me speak my mind. 
 Perhaps I am no judge, for I do not know the happiness you 
 describe, and if I had guessed at it, and imagined it, I have also 
 pictured to myself the happiness of Heaven, and all other kinds 
 of joy fade away before that, so that I feel neither curiosity 
 about, nor desire for, nor need of, earthly joys. 
 
 ' Now I am going over your letter of the 9th of May, line by 
 line, as you grumble at the quantity of things I forget to answer, 
 so now I am writing methodically. Did I really never tell you 
 about our class of forty-four children ? How stupid of me ! 
 Well, I have twenty- two scholars, and Olga as many. I teach 
 them catechism. I explain to them that the Blessed Trinity is 
 God, and that the Holy Ghost is not a Saint* like SS. Peter and 
 Paul, an error to which they incline, &c., &c. I have a great 
 ugly room, with a cross over the chimney-piece, and there I hold 
 forth ; and four times out of six it amuses me very much.f You 
 were interested with the account of our poor savage. J Well, I 
 
 * ' Le Saint Esprit ' often puzzles quite young- French children, 
 t The Cure of Boury at that time was an old man of ninety, almost super- 
 annuated, and not able to attend to the instruction of the vUlage children. 
 X A poor beggar-girl they had rescued. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 must tell you the happy conclusion of the story ; she is estab- 
 lished here as a sort of gardener's assistant. I cannot describe 
 her joy and surprise at this change, and the various ways in 
 which she shows her gratitude. She takes our hands, kisses 
 them, gets quite red and flurried, and exclaims : " Oh ! I am so 
 comfortable ! " and other remarks of the same kind. She is 
 very nervous, and even subject to hysterics ; and after coming 
 here the great change nearly turned her head. One evening, 
 during dinner, she was seized with one of these terrible attacks, 
 to the infinite terror of all the maids, who were so foolish that 
 they would not speak to the poor little thing all the rest of the 
 evening. The fit was certainly a bad one ; she rolled on the floor 
 screaming and tearing her hair ; then, as usual, when she calmed 
 down a little, she burst into a flood of tears. After which she 
 got up suddenly, and would go to the chapel, where she began 
 to say all the prayers she knew by heart, and afterwards came 
 and fell on her knees before me, saying, ^^Mademoiselle Eugenie, 
 I beg your pardon for having vexed you; " then before Alex, 
 *^ Madame Albert, I am so sorry for all the bad things I have done^ 
 Poor child ! it touched us very much. I played a little to her 
 on the organ, and at the first sound of music she became quite 
 quiet, stroked my hand while I played, and repeated, " Ah, how 
 beautiful, how beautiful ! " It is really affecting and strange to 
 hear her speak about young girls and children who were leading 
 the same life as herself : " That girl was not like me — she was 
 not obHged to go about — she had a good mother, she had, who 
 worked, and begged her to stay at home ; but she always ran 
 away and said ' Ah, bah, I won't work ! ' and then went about 
 with the gangs. I met her one day when she was tired and 
 hungry, and said to her, ' So there you are again ; you don't stay 
 with your mother, you goose, you ! ' She had had nothing to 
 eat for two days, and I had three bits of bread, so I ^ave her 
 two of them, and I had twenty sous so I gave her ten.' What 
 do you think of that speech ? Are not such acts of charity and 
 goodness in the midst of such ignorance worth more in the sight 
 of God than heaps of gold bestowed by the rich out of their 
 abundance ? Is it not also extraordinary that these generous 
 instincts should take birth and continue to exist in a poor crea- 
 ture brought up in the midst of crime, and ignorant of the very 
 name of God ? 
 
 ' But to go on to another subject. Yes, the Abbe Gerbet's 
 verses are admirable. Ever since I have read and understood 
 what I read, and pencilled my books in every direction, and in 
 all manner of shapes and colours, according as I found in them 
 things that I have sometimes thought and felt myself, I have 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 287 
 
 never met with so many of my own thoughts as in the Abbe's 
 writings ; expressed, indeed, in words I could not have hit upon 
 myself ; and, again, others which never had occurred to my mind, 
 but must have lingered about my heart, for when I see them in 
 print, the pleasure they give me is not one of surprise, but rather 
 an agreeable sense of having heard them before. 
 
 ' And now, to go on to sometliing else. Ah, Madam, I thought 
 so indeed ! So, in the wisdom of your scruples, you think you 
 do not fulfil the precept of hearing Mass if you are playing the 
 organ all the time, and so help to kindle the fervour and devotion 
 of others ? Well, Madam, being better advised than you, I 
 begin by raising my heart to God before Mass, and beg Him to 
 accept my intention and to forgive all distractions. Then, when 
 the Priest is at the foot of the Altar, and everybody on their 
 knees, I seat myself at the organ, and Mass goes on, as far as I 
 am concerned, with no means of offering up my worship, my self- 
 abasement, mj petitions, and the thousand wants of my soul, 
 than the changes and modulations of the chords, which, after all, 
 are a thousand times more expressive than any language in the 
 world. I do not deny that I have a thousand distractions, but I 
 recall my wandering thoughts, and remind Almighty God that 
 my heart lies before Him, and I beg Him to pardon the infirmities 
 of my mind. And, moreover, if I go to a second Mass it is not a 
 bit with the intention of making up for one imperfectly or not 
 heard. And, to cut the matter short, it has been decided by the 
 Church that those who play or sing during Mass, hear it in a 
 proper manner, and we are not to think otherwise. The day 
 after to-morrow we go to Paris, and thus ends a happy time of 
 quiet, a time of peace and comfort. What will be the next phase 
 of our life ? I shall write to you from Paris, and tell you how I 
 get on in another sphere. We had a grand procession on Corpus 
 Christi. The organ sounded admirably out of doors, before the 
 temporary Altar. I must leave off. Good-bye. God grant we 
 may soon meet again ! ' 
 
 MADAME DE LA PEERONNATS TO PAULmE. 
 
 * June 2nd. 
 ' I take Olga's place, who was going to write to yon, but she is 
 attending to two girls, one of whom is going to make her first 
 Communion to-morrow, and the other to renew the act. Did 
 Eugenie tell you about the processions ? I think not, for she 
 did not write that day. They were really charming. It was all 
 so pretty ; the girls dressed in white, the music near the Altar in 
 the garden, and the wonderful effect of Eugenie's voice in the 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 open air. My dear child, I want yon to know how much touched 
 and pleased I was with your letter of May the 20th. It is a 
 subject on which we have always agreed, but there are not many, 
 I believe, who are heartily of our mind. What you say on the 
 matter, ^^chatouille de mon coeur Vorgeuilleuse faiblesse,^' * by 
 proving that I was right ; for I have maintained a hundred times 
 that the women who plunge headlong into dissipation after their 
 marriage, are generally those who have been kept from all enjoy- 
 ment in their youth. In Paris, women begin their career of 
 pleasure and dancing when they marry, whereas, in my opinion, 
 they ought then to leave off caring for pleasure and dancing : but 
 if this is to be the case it is not amiss that they should have had 
 little amusement beforehand ; and, therefore, I have never been 
 sorry to have given you all opportunities of amusing yourselves, 
 but you know I always told you that you must make up your 
 minds to do without amusement at any moment, and for ever if 
 necessary. And now I think I have praised myself enough. I 
 must leave off, my dear child, for I have all my goods to pack. 
 The last Mass the Abbe Gerbet says here — for this time at least 
 — is just over. We all went to our duties, and I offered up my 
 Communion in thanksgiving for the consolation granted, and the 
 favours bestowed during these last six months. The abundance 
 of spiritual blessings we have enjoyed has given us fresh life. 
 This is certainly the case with Alexandrine and Eugenie, and 
 though I may not perhaps have derived so much advantage 
 from them as they have done, still I can testify to the comfort 
 it has brought. I love yon with all my heart.' 
 
 COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT TO ALEXANDRINE. 
 
 'Paris, May eth, 1837. 
 * You pay me the highest possible compliment when you tell 
 me that I write about Albert in a way that satisfies you. Alas ! 
 my dear friend, I assure you it is not in a way that; satisfies 
 myself; on the contrary, I often accuse myself of a want of grati- 
 tude towards him and his holy memory. In the midst of my 
 present happiness I am afraid of too often losing sight of his 
 affectionate solicitude, who, as you justly say, obtained that bless- 
 ing for me by his fervent prayers. Still, God knows that my 
 thoughts and memory revert to Albert whenever I can withdraw 
 them from the present scene. In Italy, indeed, it was natural 
 that his remembrance should haunt me. The past contains no 
 dearer one to me. I liked to feel myself, as it were, under the 
 protection of my companion and intimate friend, with whom I 
 used to share all my feelings, and who would, I am sure, have 
 * ' Matters the proud weakness of my heart.' 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 289 
 
 sacrificed half his own happiness to secure mine. I was obliged 
 to give up the hope I had cherished of spending some days at 
 Pisa to dwell upon these recollections. 
 
 ' Having been detained at Florence, as I told you, by my wife's 
 illness, we had to hurry to Genoa as soon as she had recovered, 
 in order to reach Paris before it became unsafe for her to travel ; 
 and to avoid the snow on Mount Cenis we were forced to take 
 the Cornice Road. Thus we only just passed through Pisa, and 
 that in such weather that it was impossible to set foot in the 
 streets, which were nothing but streams of melted snow. In the 
 evening, however, I managed to paddle by moonlight from the 
 hotel to the house in which we lived, but it was too late to try to 
 renew acquaintance with our famous Professor and poor Therese. 
 The next morning we were forced to start in a violent snow- 
 storm — this on the 25th of March ! I do not know Italy again 
 in such weather. Many regards to your father and mother-in- 
 law. I saw Charles yesterday, who was very amiable to me and 
 admirably patient.' 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 ' Villersexel (Haute Rhone), June 5th, 1837. 
 * My very dear Friend, — I came here on the 29th of May, on 
 the anniversary of your reception into the Church. I found here 
 your letter of May 22nd. I read first with the deepest interest 
 what you tell me of the good the Abbe Gerbet has done you all. 
 I rejoice at it most heartily, but in spite of it I cannot help 
 deploring his prolonged stay at Boury, and especially his inaction 
 while there. Everything you tell me is excellent in itself, but it 
 is not the kind of good the Abbe Gerbet ought to be doing. I do 
 not hesitate to say such is not his mission — it is the mission of a 
 village cure, an excellent and a high one I grant, but not his. 
 What should we have thought if your father-in-law, when he was 
 minister of foreign affairs or ambassador, had taken it into his 
 head to turn himself into an inspector of domains, or a collector 
 of taxes, and boasted of the services he was rendering the King 
 in that new capacity ? Would not every one have cried out 
 against him, and said it was not his place — that he was wanting 
 in his duty ? Well, that is the story of the Abbe Gerbet, with 
 the difference there must always exist between even the greatest 
 minister and a Priest, and such a Priest as he is. It is not for 
 Boury, nor Tor any given locality he ought to be labouring, but 
 for Borne and Paris, and that means for the world. The Catholic 
 world, the whole Church, requires his services, and not the little 
 parish of Boury, or the diocese of Beauvais. The Church has a 
 right to his services, especially at this moment, when she has been 
 
 U 
 
290 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 assailed and violently outraged by a most dangerous enemy. 
 When the Abbe de la Mennais' dangerous and insulting book 
 appeared, all eyes turned towards the Abbe Gerbet and the Abbe 
 Lacordaire, because every one felt that it belonged to them to 
 defend their Mother. This was not a question of the salvation of 
 five or six souls, but of the salvation of thousands, perhaps of 
 millions, for it is one of those struggles which go on reverberating 
 through centuries, and may aflfect the farthest generations for 
 good or evil. The Abbe Lacordaire nobly fulfilled his duty, and 
 at the end of three weeks his work * was completed and sent to 
 the Pope. Every one knows that it was the Archbishop of Paris 
 who stopped its publication.f This should have only served to 
 kindle the Abbe Gerbet' s zeal, and urged him not to abandon the 
 field to triumphant error. But he did not come forward, and 
 every one regrets it, and so much the more that we can tell by 
 the fragments published in the Universite CathoUque what a 
 glorious monument he could have raised to truth and the Church. 
 But nobody thinks he has fulfilled his obligation by these scanty 
 pages, and there is no one who does not feel as the Pope did 
 when I gave him the first edition, " E peccato, non efinito.'" (It 
 is a pity it is not finished.) This was last January, and now we 
 are in June. You say that you despise the outcry of " that 
 wretched world which always cries out, and never knows or under- 
 stands,'' but I am not speaking of the worldly world, but of the 
 Catholic world, both Priests and laymen. I know nothing more 
 worthy of respect, or of being hstened to, than that world. You 
 quote S. James, and I quote the Gospel. Indeed, you will do 
 me no injustice at all (as you seem to think you do) by supposing 
 that I do not like the hidderi good the Abbe Gerbet is doing. No, 
 certainly I do not like it, it is this very hidden life I complain of. 
 Did not Our Lord say, " Neither do men light a candle and put it 
 imder a bushel? " Now Boury is the bushel which covers and 
 hides the light God has given the Abbe Gerbet to enhghten His 
 Church. Remember that I do not find fault with him for choos- 
 ing Boury as his abode, though for my own sake I should have 
 preferred Trelon, or Villersexel ; what I find fault with is, that 
 he does not work at Boury, and I conclude from that idleness 
 that the place is not good for him, and that the sooner he leaves 
 it the better. I am not afraid of people saying, " There is a friend 
 for you ! " for I do not beheve that the Abbe Gerbet has a better 
 friend than myself ; but I am a still greater friend to the Church ; 
 and that is why I complain of his sinning against the Church. I 
 am not quite certain that his silence does not amount to a sin against 
 
 * Afterwards known as the Letter on the Holy See, 
 f From prudential reasons. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 291 
 
 the JEolij Ghost ! — ^but as he is a better theologian than I am, he 
 can tell you this himself. You said in your letter, " Answer me," 
 and now I hope you are answered. But, in spite of my outcry 
 against the Abbe Gerbet, I cannot forget, my very dear friend, 
 the holy and admirable words he said to you this day year.* The 
 recollection of that address and of all that affecting scene fills me, 
 even now, with deep emotions ; and I wished to write to jou to- 
 day and sympathize as much as in me lies, with this glorious 
 and holy anniversary. The remembrance of that first Com- 
 munion of yours, which was to be Albert's last, and in which I 
 was so happily associated with you both, will always be one 
 of the sweetest, holiest, dearest recollections of my life, for never 
 did that religion, which I love above all things, seem to me so 
 sublime and beautifal. I cannot but think it was the best day of 
 your life, for you never had made Albert so happy, or been so 
 yourself, and in so holy a manner united to him. I found my 
 wife perfectly well, thank God ! Pray for us a great deal from 
 the 10th to the 15th,t and beg Eugenie and the Abbe Gerbet to 
 join in these prayers. I am not afraid of asking you all to 
 bear this intention in mind at a time when you will be dwelling 
 on remembrances as dear to me as to you. And now to conclude. 
 I must say in reply to your wise sisterly remonstrances on my 
 passion for raising an outcry and my sudden extasies and furies 
 that you are quite right, but I am afraid this tendency will con- 
 tinue. It belongs to my nature, and you know the proverb, 
 *' Chassez le naturel, it revient au galop." It is therefore probable 
 that we shall both go on to the end, I going into rages and you 
 scolding me for them; that is the likeness between us. Only 
 you Avill be doing right, and I wrong ; that is the difference. You 
 see it is entirely to your advantage. Farewell ! ' 
 
 Notwithstanding the exaggerated expressions in some of the 
 passages of this letter, I have not thought it desirable to suppress 
 a single word of it, for they reflect no discredit either on the 
 writer, who penned them in the full ardour of his youthful 
 impetuosity, or on the venerable object of his strictures. They 
 exhibit M. de Montalembert's somewhat impetuous zeal and that 
 love for the Church of which he has given so many proofs ; and 
 they also prove how important in his eyes were his friend's 
 labours, and how much prestige even at that time surrounded the 
 name of one who afterwards occupied so high a position in the 
 Church. For my part, I may still be allowed to question whether 
 
 * The day of Alexandrine's first Communion. 
 
 t Eugenie wrote on the 22nd, ' Have you heard of the arrival of Demoiselle 
 Marie Elizabeth Hiltrude de Montalewhert, who, I am sure, will not fail to do 
 honour to her great patron Saints.' 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 the Abbe Gerbet's work at Boury was as unworthy of his mission 
 as Albert's friend considered it to be. And it seems now even 
 more doubtful whether any additional refutation of the Abbe de 
 la Mennais' doctrines were really an object for which that other 
 work ought to have been given up. Time, which, alas ! has over- 
 thrown all the hopes we then still cherished for that great fallen 
 intellect, has also shown that the dangers with which his apostacy 
 threatened the Church were far less considerable than was sup- 
 posed by men who concluded that the power of the enemy would 
 be proportionate to the champion's strength. Their alarm was 
 natural, and when they saw the light which had guided them — 
 and which some of them had followed with even passionate 
 affection — transformed into the lurid flame of an incendiary, we 
 cannot wonder that the alarm should have been excessive. But 
 what no refutation could have done, God Himself effected by 
 quenching the fire of genius in Mons. de la Mennais' mind, when 
 he himself extinguished the fire of charity in his soul. I repeat, 
 of charity, not the light of faith, for it always seemed to me that 
 the ruin of that great, but unhappy man, was brought about by 
 anger, and not by unbelief. 
 
 Alexandrine answered Count de Montalembert's vehement letter 
 in the following manner : — 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBEET. 
 
 ' June 13th. 
 
 ' I see you are not cured of your despotic humour. What ! 
 you lay it upon me, per la santa ubbedienza — I should like to know 
 by what right — to order the Abbe Gerbet to leave Boury ? I 
 gave him your letter, and admired the smiling placidity with 
 which he read all your impertinent invectives. But if I must 
 answer you, I will say, first, that his health is not good, and he 
 is consequently obliged continually to interrupt his work ; then, 
 that he has good reasons for putting off writing to you ; then, 
 that he once wrote you a letter of six sheets, which ought to 
 reckon for five years ; then, that when you see his hand^Titing 
 again it will be in a volume ; then, that he has a splendid plan for 
 a new work in his head ; and lastly, that you have no business to 
 judge him at all, though you are an eminent and even celebrated 
 man. 
 
 ' Apropos of this, I see how truly I feel like a sister to you, by 
 the joy which it gives me to hear your S. Elizabeth praised up to 
 the slaes. In spite of frivolity and affectation, the fashionable 
 world has been touched, whether it would or not, by the charm- 
 ing naivete, the tenderness, the love of God, and the earnestness 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 which stamp this dear book, and which are rendered in such a 
 simple and graceful style ; and besides all this, it has a hundred 
 other merits. You have, I am sure, heard all this said much 
 better than I can say it. And now I end by the warning you 
 have so often and so usefully given me : ^^ Beivare of pride.'' 
 
 'My dear friend, summon up all your faith, and make one 
 earnest prayer that I may get rid of the spirit of subtlety, and 
 the endless reasonings in a circle which result from it, and from 
 scrupulosity, the source of both. But never pray for me without 
 beseeching that God may make that poor love of ours, which was 
 so full of trials in this world, eternally happy in the next. You 
 are bound to do this for Albert's sake, for I think no man ever so 
 earnestly desired a friend's happiness as he did yours. I know 
 you admit this, my dear brother Montal, and it makes me love 
 you very much. ! I should like to see you again, to tell you 
 a thousand things, to weary you with a thousand repetitions, — ^but 
 you would have patience with me. I thank you for telling me 
 about that good Princess Yolkonsky. What did she say about 
 bur poor days at Sorrento ? Ah ! indeed our life there was 
 sweet ! I never, even in my dreams, could conceive anything 
 more enchanting ; and it must have struck others even more than 
 ourselves, who did not know that such joys are rarely to be found 
 on earth. It was his health only that prevented it from being 
 perfect ; but I looked forward to happiness with such certainty ; 
 I was so sure he would get well. Pitying Angels must, I think, 
 have closed my eyes, for such blindness was not natural, or in 
 accordance with my character and my continual anxiety about 
 him. Thank you for thinking of us when you saw our house 
 under the Trinita da Monte. Yes, we met there for the first 
 time, and there his love, by God's grace, began to draw me 
 towards Heaven. I like to think that you have seen Pisa, too, 
 once more. ; 
 
 ' We are very busy, and the dear Abbe, whom you so scandal- 
 ously and irreverently accuse of idleness, is saving many souls 
 at Boury. The village takes up almost all our time. Eugenie is 
 superioress, prime minister, and head school- mistress. Olga is 
 almoner and chaplain, and I am chancellor, gravedigger, and 
 missionary. Old kind Abbe Martin de Noirlieu has been spend- 
 ing a fortnight here, and has done us all good. He loves and 
 admires you, and while he was here read your S. Elizabeth, which 
 he could not forgive you for not sending him, till he heard you 
 had treated the Abbe Gerbet in the same way. And after that, 
 you reproach him for not having sent you an article in a news- 
 paper ! Farewell, and God bless you.' 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 These letters were written only a few days before the Abbe 
 Gerbet's departure. He left Boury the following week, with all 
 the inmates of the chateau. They were going to Paris for the 
 last fortnight in June, and did not return to the country till after 
 the anniversary of Albert's death. During their stay in Paris 
 they met several of the friends most connected with those sad 
 recollections, and among others the Abbe Martin de !N'oirlieu and 
 Mons. Rio. The Abbe Gerbet went to Juilly, but returned to 
 spend the 29th day of June with them. But it will be seen that 
 even at a distance he had shared all their feelings during those 
 melancholy days. Amongst several letters written at that time 
 by absent friends, I find one from myself which I think I should 
 not omit. 
 
 FROM PAULINE. 
 
 ' Cintra, June 1st, 1837. 
 * My dear Sisters, — Here we are, since the day before yester- 
 day, settled in our cottage. The view from it is charming, and 
 will, I hope, do me good. Everything in this said cottage is in 
 a style of rustic simplicity, and it is impossible to imagine any-' 
 thing more rural, but the view is still more lovely than from 
 Lisbon. From my window I look on a richly- wooded hill, and a 
 deep valley, in which picturesque villas lie embosomed in gardens. 
 From another window in the same room, I see the church with 
 its arcade, one of the prettiest I have met with here. In front of 
 it stands a great stone cross, covered with ivy, and shaded by fine 
 trees ; and at the back of all this, the plain stretches on to the 
 old Convent of Mafra, and to the sea, which bounds the horizon, 
 and completes the picture, though it is not visible everywhere at 
 Cintra. Does not this make up a beautiful view, and one which 
 adds to all its other charms, that of reminding me both of Rome 
 and Naples ? The return of this month, however, makes me very 
 sad. Amidst the recollections which each day brings with it, 
 what saddens me most is the thought of my absence last year. 
 Eugenie, you said in the letter you wrote to me after Albert's 
 death, "Your feast will not be saddened by these associations." 
 Ah ! that was your first impression at the moment, when it 
 almost seemed as if you could look into that Heaven whither his 
 soul had fled. But it was not true. Alas ! there is no longer any 
 festival for us on that day. It is for ever devoted to him alone. 
 When I was a child it was my birthday that was always kept. 
 At Rome, in 1830, we began to keep my feast, and I spent that 
 lovely 29th of June with Albert in greater happiness and intimacy 
 than we had ever yet known, and everything about us was still 
 joyous and bright, though we were so near the great reverses of 
 July. The following year we were at Castellamare, still with 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 295 
 
 him, and very happy and gay. In 1832 came the famous 29th 
 of June at Vomero, when Alexandrine put on a white dress for 
 the first time after her father's death, and allowed Albert to hope 
 that she might love him some day. In 1833 we were certainly 
 far away from them both, but we were continually thinking of 
 them. In 1834 they were just married, and all was happiness 
 then, and it was my own bright time also. In 1835 came Korsen, 
 and in 1836 — Heaven ! You see, then, how recollections of him 
 are mingled with all these days. Before 1830 I did not know 
 him as I did afterwards. If the 29th had always been kept as my 
 feast-day, there would have been several years in which he would not 
 have been connected with it, whereas now for all these six years he 
 has always held a prominent place on that day, and hencefor- 
 ward it will be consecrated to his memory. I am rather glad, 
 however, that Mass cannot be said in black on the 29th of June ; 
 it is a Feast of the Church and a Festival in Heaven, though it 
 is no longer one for us. Farewell, my dear little sisters, may 
 God bless you always as He does now, and keep you what 
 you are.' 
 
 THE ABB^ GERBET TO ALEXANDRINE. 
 
 ' Jtiilly, June 15th, 1837. 
 
 * Your welcome letters have come, and it has been a real charity 
 on your part not to have made them too short. They are as 
 meritorious as some good alms bestowed upon a poor hermit. 
 In my retreat at Juilly you may rely upon it I do not forget 
 Boury or Paris. I keep these anniversaries with you, my dear 
 afflicted child, whose sad heart is broken by this terrible storm. 
 You carry with you, however, your compass and your guiding 
 star — God guides you. Patient suffering is pure gold, and suf- 
 fering joined to charity and self-devotion a priceless diamond. 
 Sail on, then, sail on, and with that freight make your port. 
 
 * Juilly, June 24tli. 
 
 * It is just midnight, and at this moment, my poor child, your 
 week of sorrow begins 
 
 * I had written these two lines when I was interrupted by a 
 little occurrence that I am going to relate, as it suggests sweet 
 and comforting thoughts. While I was writing, a moth that 
 had flown in through the half- open window fell down upon the 
 brick floor. It had probably hurt itself, and was fluttering 
 about, making some little noise in its efibrts to raise itself from 
 the ground. The noise drew my attention to it, and it struck 
 me that if it managed to fly about in the usual way it would 
 Boon scorch its wings in the light of my candle and die, and that 
 
296 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 it would be better to put it out of doors in the starlight. I chased 
 the little insect, caught it, and set it at liberty. Poor moth ! we 
 are like you. Struck down by grief, we sink and struggle in our 
 pain, but at the same time we flutter our wings, — the wings God 
 has given us of hope and prayer, and at those moments He spe- 
 cially watches us. When I was pursuing you, poor little moth, 
 you were terribly afraid of me, you thought I intended to add to 
 your sufferings, and I was pursuing you only to save yoa, and it 
 IS thus that God pursues us. When I cast you out, poor moth, 
 into the dark night, then you especially accused me of cruelty. 
 Poor unknowing thing ! The coarse light you regretted would 
 have been your death, and instead of death to-morrow you will 
 enjoy the fresh air and the rising sun. The dai-k night is an 
 image of death, and when God casts us out into that night, it is 
 only to set us free, and to give us life and joy at the dawn of an 
 eternal day. This is what I said to the poor little moth, and 
 this is what our good God says to us. 
 
 ' This is all I shall write this evening, my dear child, at the 
 beginning of this sorrowful week, but you and your Eugenie 
 will find in these words what God intends you to learn from 
 them. I kneel with you at the foot of your Cross. Reckon me, 
 my dear children, among the friends who feel most deeply for 
 you at this moment.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
   Paris, June 16th, 1837. 
 ' My dear Pauline, — It seems to me that in writing to you to- 
 day, one name and date are enough to convey to you all that fills 
 my own mind and yours too, for I am sure you are with us in 
 spirit. I thank God for ray good memory, for one of the 
 greatest miseries of human nature is the gradual blotting out 
 and disappearance of all that one has felt the most intensely. 
 God preserve me for this ! It is sweet to be convinced, as I am 
 more and more, that in God our affections are best kept alive, 
 and that He, being all love, knows how to maintain in us the 
 recollection of every affection which He has blest. Ah, my 
 dear sister, how well I know that you understand me ! My 
 darling old friend, if you should happen to be told of my un- 
 gracious refusal to dine out with our aunt de Damas, do pray 
 take my part, for you have such influence in the family, and say 
 that you enter into my feelings. I must stand out a little at 
 first in order that my retirement and deep mourning may be 
 accepted as a thing of course, and then no one will think any 
 more about it. Good-bye, I love you, and do wish I could see 
 you again.' 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 297 
 
 COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT TO ALEXANDRINE. 
 
 ' VUlersexel, June 27th, 1837. 
 ' My very dear Friend and Sister, — I should not like the holy 
 anniversary of the day after to-morrow to go by without your 
 receiving a word from me. You will allow me, I am sure, to 
 commemorate with you those sufferings, that grief, that fruitful 
 sorrow I once shared, and through which your soul was won to 
 God. I believe there is no one in the world, after Pauline and 
 Eugenie, better able than myself to understand and share all 
 that your poor heart endured during these memorable days, so 
 sorrowful in your remembrance, but so great and precious in 
 the sight of God. I have sometimes reproached myself that in 
 consequence of the sudden and excessive flow of happiness 
 which at that moment was agitating and pre-occupying me, I did 
 not feel in that room of the Rue de Madame all the devotion 
 with which a Christian and a friend ought to have witnessed the 
 sublime and welcome sight of a soul, purified and sanctified by 
 suffering, preparing with such resignation to leave all things and 
 seek God alone, where, in the flower of his age, and the height 
 of happiness, I saw my friend die, who, as you truly say, loved 
 me best, and most earnestly desired my peace and happiness : 
 where I also saw a soul very dear to me, even yours, dear 
 Alexandrine, brought to the true faith by means of sorrow and 
 love. I have often grieved aLnd even blushed at the recollection 
 that I did not devote myself entirely to you, in that great crisis 
 of your two lives. But God, who disposed of events otherwise 
 in my life, has at least allowed me to preserve a clear, vivid, and 
 minute remembrance of those days. It would have been gratify- 
 ing to me, and perhaps not unwelcome to you, could we have 
 met at this time and interchanged our thoughts of the past. 
 But as this is impossible, you will not deny me, my very dear 
 Alexandrine, the favour I ask, which is, to give me a place in 
 your prayers the day after to-morrow — a very special place, as 
 Albert's greatest friend, as to one who loved him much, and was 
 loved by him, and who was present at the beginning and the close 
 of your earthly union. Whether you wish it or not, you must 
 always think of me while thinking of him, for our intimacy was 
 a very close one, and began at the very same time as his love for 
 you. 
 
 ' I shall have Mass said for him here the day after to-morrow, 
 but for his intention only, as no solemn service for the dead can 
 be performed on account of the beautiful Feast of SS. Peter and 
 Paul, the Feast of Rome, where you saw and loved one another 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 for the first time. I like continually to ascribe some of my 
 present happiness to Albert's intercession, to his fervent and 
 affectionate prayers during life, and protection now. This must 
 give you an interest in my welfare, and I do not hesitate to 
 speak of it even during this mournful time. Did you receive 
 the parcel I sent to Boury, and the letter telling of my daugh- 
 ter's birth ? My wife is wonderfully well, and nothing has 
 occurred to disturb our joy. She desires me to say a thousand 
 kind things to you and Eugenie, and sympathises with you in 
 every way. Farewell, my dear friend. You know whether I 
 am your friend and brother for life.' 
 
 PAULINE TO EUGENIE. 
 
 * Cintra, June 29tli, 1837. 
 
 * It seems to me that I am nearer to you to-day, my precious 
 sisters, because since waking this morning our first and last 
 thought will be the same. It is a day of union, just as if we 
 were looking at the same star. Our eyes are more continually 
 than usual fixed upon our Albert, and we are united in him. 
 You must tell me how you spent this day, that I may feel as if 
 I had been with you, even as on that solemn one, when, alas ! I 
 was absent, but which I live over again with you now. I have 
 spent the last few days in reading all your last year's letters, in 
 which I found so many heart-breaking things, especially those 
 words of his when he spoke of me for the last time, and said, 
 *' Kiss her once more for me." Ah ! I cannot tell you what afresh 
 pang it gave me to think that I was not there to embrace him 
 once more. A year, it is actually a year since he died, — the time 
 when some widows' mourning is ended ! How strange it would 
 have seemed if Alexandrine had been like other people ! I cannot 
 picture her to myself otherwise than I left her, and as I shall 
 find her again, and what is commonly said of the effects of time 
 seem merely absurd when applied to her. All I wish is that she 
 should be allowed to spend her years to come as this onb has 
 been spent, surrounded with such joys as God gives to those 
 whose earthly ones are ended, and with you, my darling sister ; 
 and then, that, I too, may be sometimes with you both, and that 
 what we have gained by Albert's example and his remembrance, 
 may be strengthened in us day by day, and make us worthy to 
 meet him again speedily on leaving this world.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO COUNT MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 'Boury, July 7th, 1837. 
 
 * My dear Friend, — It touched me to receive on the 29th your 
 good, brotherly, and friendly letter, containing such precious 
 
A SISTER'S 8T0R7. 299 
 
 words about Albert. I had just come from Communion, and 
 had prayed that God would unite us in His love, — my very fre- 
 quent prayer. I need not say how pleased I should have been 
 to have had you here, and I had also hoped that that other friend 
 of Albert's, dear Rio, who has been with us in all these anni- 
 versaries, would also have come this morning; but his health 
 prevented it. We received Communion from the same hand as 
 when with Albert last year, and the Abbe Gerbet addressed us 
 in comforting words. But I did not enjoy them as peacefully as 
 I could have wished. Yes, dear friend, I feel as you do, and I 
 like the thought that the Mass for the Dead can never be said on 
 the day of his death, on account of the glorious Feast of the 
 Apostles. I love that Feast more than ever. Throughout the 
 Church, it is impossible to wear black vestments on the day in 
 which Albert left this world for a better. Yes, I like this. I 
 need not tell you that I spent several hours in the precious and 
 holy room where Albert died. It always soothes me ! How I wish 
 it were possible for me to die in that room ! To look round at 
 all the spots hallowed by his sufferings and resignation, would, I 
 think, give me something of his courage and calmness, though 
 mine would be far less meritorious, for I should be going to meet 
 him : I should be leaving this world, where I have no joy, whereas 
 he was glad to go, though leaving me behind. ! how sorrow- 
 ful this life is. I do not know when I shall have courage to give 
 up the possession of that room, and not keep it in my own hands. 
 I have asked the Abbe Martin de ^N'oirlieu to make use of it. He 
 will think often of Albert, and Albert, who loved him so much, 
 will like his being there. 
 
 * How glad I am to think that your wife is so well, and that 
 everything has been prosperous. May God lead both of you 
 onwards to Heaven, and spare you afBictions ! To be sure, life 
 passes away like a dream, and at the last moment past sorrows 
 perhaps seem only like bad dreams. But how much we can 
 Buffer in our sleep, and do you think we should wish to have 
 sorrowful dreams, that our watching may be more joyful ? My 
 dear friend, pray that I may have faith equal to your own. Fare- 
 well, and give my tenderest love to Anna, and Eugenie's, too. 
 May God bless you, my dear brother and sister ! ' 
 
 MADAME DE LA FEREONNATS TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Boury, July 5th, 1837. 
 
 * Your father writes me word that the grief of Mons. and Mme. 
 de Mun is heartbreaking, and what makes it more sad is, that 
 they both feel it in opposite ways ; Mons. de Mun longing to 
 
300 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 pour out his sorrow, and his wife suffering in silence. Your 
 father contrives to do them both good. They seem scarcely able 
 to do without him, and neither of them can understand why they 
 should feel such confidence in one whom they have known so 
 short a time. It is a gift he possesses, and almost everybody 
 feels its influence. It is harrowing, also, to see so many of our 
 Naples' acquaintance disappearing. Caroline Fonton, the youngest 
 and the darhng of the family ! And then, what I can scarcely 
 believe, that beautiful, brilhant, and beloved Duchess di Santo 
 Teodoro. I try not to believe the news, but I too much fear it 
 will be confirmed. All these things quite change Naples to us, 
 and it seems as if another generation had sprung up since we 
 left. We were not indeed very intimate with all these people, 
 but the members of a society in which we live are like the flowers 
 of a parterre. If a storm beats them down, we feel a keen regret, 
 even though they may not have been planted or tended by our- 
 selves, and those who take their place cannot make us forget what 
 is associated with our earliest and pleasantest recollections.' 
 
 * Some days later. 
 * Yesterday was Eugenie's feast, and, moreover. Alexandrine's 
 birthday. During dessert, and quite unexpectedly, we were sur- 
 prised by a grand firing of guns under the window, and at the 
 same moment a bouquet and verses were laid on the table for 
 Eugenie. On leaving the dining-room, we found Saulnois* 
 bringing in the younger maids, dressed in white, waiting to give 
 Eugenie more bouquets, and to repeat verses in her honour. I 
 was very sorry that no one had known it was Alexandrine's 
 birthday, and I could not bear to see her unnoticed, when she 
 has so many claims to the gratitude of the villagers, whose bene- 
 factress she is. I mentioned this to your father, who felt as I 
 did, and in the evening, at tea-time, there came a beautiful bouquet, 
 and some very tolerable verses, improvised for her by the school- 
 master. This gave me pleasure, for it seemed as if my Albert 
 would have been vexed if her birthday had been overlooked. I 
 had been thinking what her birthdays must have been formerly, 
 when she was the only daughter, the idol of her father and mother, 
 and the object of the world's admiration. What a change for. 
 her, and how sad an end to so brilliant an existence ! On the 
 other hand, it is true that she now follows a path where the light 
 of Heaven is shining upon her, whereas on the one she used to 
 tread it was, to say the least of it, veiled. This is a cheering 
 thought, which turns sadness into joy.' 
 
 * My mother's maid. 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 301 
 
 THE ABB^ GERBET TO ALEXANDRINE. 
 
 ' JuiUy, June 6th, 1837. 
 
 * This morning I read in my Breviary a text of Scripture, 
 wliicli says, that In Heaven there shall he no need of lamps. What, 
 no tapers ? not even gas lights ? How will it be possible to do 
 without tapers ? I am sadly afraid that the light of Heaven will 
 not be enough. That is what, in one way or other, we are always 
 saying to ourselves. I say " we," and very sincerely, for we all 
 do so now and then. Do not mistake this for a personal 
 remark. It gives me great pleasure to hear that you are less 
 troubled. Strengthen your will against sadness, strive cou- 
 rageously against depression of spirits, and may God's Angels 
 ever guard you ! I enclose you a passage from one of Mme. 
 de Hautefeuille's books. I read it the other day and it struck 
 me very much. " This world, then, has joys which the 
 Angels might envy us. But to be perfect, these joys ought 
 to be tasted by some other kind of hearts than ours, in which a 
 sad admixture of earth's taint spoils everything. This incom- 
 pleteness and uncertainty, this voice that cries at night, ' There 
 is nothing lasting^'' — this sort of incapacity to relish happiness, or 
 must we say it, a kind of weariness in the enjoyment of it, a sort 
 of need of tears and sorrow, teach the heart of man that the joys 
 of Heaven are for Heaven only, and that here the extatic hap- 
 piness which the Seraphim enjoy might kill us, or, alas ! alas ! 
 would weary us." This last sentence contains a profound truth. 
 This weariness results from a disproportion between our faculties 
 in their present condition, and the use we make of those faculties. 
 We are not capable on earth of bearing the highest degree of 
 happiness. When S. Francis Xavier was overwhelmed with the 
 weight of Divine consolations, and cried out, '■''Enough, Lord, 
 enough .' " he felt and expressed this truth. My dear child, your 
 life is a grand preparation for future joy, and the sharper the 
 trial, the deeper, higher, and wider will become your capacity 
 for enjoyment. Courage, then ; you are going through your 
 noviciate for Heaven. The black veil is only ordained for the 
 period of probation.* 
 
 A few days afterwards the Abbe Grerbet wrote to Alexandrine 
 to recommend to her notice a young man whose poverty precluded 
 him from entering the seminary. In it he says : — 
 
 ' My affection, or I may say, my reverence for him, the strength 
 and disinterestedness of his vocation, his past misfortunes and 
 unvaried resignation, his self-devotion, a humility which I have 
 
302 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 scarcely ever seen equalled, together with a delicacy which shines 
 out all the more brightly because of that humility and his ardent 
 desire to labour for the salvation of souls, have all determine d 
 me to do everthing in my power to remove, by a few voluntary 
 contributions, the obstacles which detain this angehc soul on the 
 threshold of the temple.' 
 
 Alexandrine's answer may be deduced from the following 
 letter, written by the Abbe Grerbet a few days later : — 
 
 ' JuiUy, July nth, 1837. 
 * I have only a moment, my dear child, to thank you, not 
 only for your good work, but for the letter, which was even 
 better than the work. Do not be afraid, I am not going to 
 praise you. Still, I wish and ought to tell you that the feelings 
 and emotions you speak of are graces for which you should thank 
 God. There is nothing new to me in what you say, but it is 
 none the less pleasant for that, for whenever the good qualities 
 of those we deeply value show themselves in any special way, it 
 is a great pleasure. It belongs to you to be humble, but I may 
 be a little proud of them. You must forgive me for telling your 
 
 name to M. L , for in asking him to pray for " Albert and 
 
 Albert's wife,'' as you wished, I should equally have disclosed it. 
 Do you think Albert's name is so unknown here that I could 
 have mentioned it without revealing yours ? But I told no one 
 but him, and have undertaken to convey to you the expression 
 of his gratitude. It is calm and deep, such as a Saint would 
 feel. You have a right to his prayers, and when 1 say you, I 
 mean also that half of you called Eugenie. Bless that dear 
 Eugenie, and make her bless you. My dear children, the good 
 you do rejoices my heart. I should like to be at Boury. Mean- 
 while, may its air be ever sweet and fragrant to you both, its 
 shades soothing, its poor cottages fair in your eyes, and its 
 chapel peace-giving and full of comfort ! ' 
 
 Alexandrine had kept the rooms in the Rue de Madame, not 
 for herself, as she lived with my father and mother, but that she 
 might go when she liked to the room where Albert died, and 
 pray there as in a sanctuary. She gave up this satisfaction, as 
 well as a secret wish to die there herself afterwards, that she 
 might practise that economy which her increasing charities ne- 
 cessitated. But at the moment of which we are speaking, she 
 still kept possession of the rooms, which she liked to lend from 
 time to time to a friend, and especially to some Priest who had 
 known Albert, and who, when living on the spot, would naturally 
 keep him more particularly in remembrance, and pray for him. 
 
A SISTER'S 8T0BT. 
 
 At this time the rooms were occupied by the Abbe Martin de 
 Noirlieu, one of the dearest and most esteemed of Albert's 
 friends, and thence he wi'ote the following letter to Alexandrine. 
 
 ABBl^ MARTIN DE NOIRLIEU TO ALEXANDRINE. 
 
 ' Paris, July 6tli, 1837. 
 
 * I am now in possession, Madame, of the rooms you have been 
 so good as to lend me, and find myself most comfortable. I 
 always live in the room of memories, and have already often 
 prayed there for unsere verewigten* I must own, however, that 
 the first evening here was very painful. When I found myself 
 alone in that large room, the whole scene of June 29th so clearly 
 rose up before me, that I was deeply moved, and I seemed to see 
 rehearsed what we then saw and heard. I had recourse to 
 prayer, and soon the anguish ceased. I have put a little table 
 and a Crucifix between the windows, and there I hear confessions 
 and say my prayers. You see, therefore, that the spot made 
 holy by the struggles and victory of a just soul, has become an 
 oratory where your Albert's remembrance lives in the Presence of 
 God, Who has called him to Himself. 
 
 ' After the children's confirmation, who are also going to make 
 their first Communion, I shall set ofi" for Boury as quickly as I 
 can. I will take the portraits to Mdlle. Thomas. She came on 
 Wednesday to show me her copy, which is nearly finished. I 
 thought there was a harshness in the expression she has given to 
 our dear Albert's countenance which did not at all belong to it, 
 and I regret very much that the portrait does not in the least 
 convey the beauty of his angehc smile. I wish it could be done 
 over again by some artist who had known and loved him, but it 
 is certain that his features are indelibly engraved in your heart 
 and in the hearts of his friends. Say a thousand afiectionate 
 things for me, I beg of you, to Mons. le Comte and Mme. la 
 Comtesse de la Ferronnays, to Mdlle, Eugenie, and Mdlle. Olga. 
 They are all present to me before God, only to know them is a 
 pleasure, and the very thought of them a rest to the mind. Fare- 
 well, Madame. I am your devoted servant and friend, 
 
 Martin de Noirlieu.' 
 
 Up to this time, in looking over my mother's letters, I have 
 tried to select those only which, with Eugenie's, furnish a com- 
 plete account of the foregoing year, but I have been often tempted 
 to depart from this rule, especially when I came across evidences 
 of her afiectionate tenderness to me. Who does not know that of 
 
 * The departed ; those who are ours for ever. 
 
304 A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 all the painful thoughts which recur to the mind in days of 
 ^rief, and which have been so well called the invidious pangs of 
 sorrow, there is none so acute as the idea that we have not felt 
 or shown enough affection to the departed ones ? Yes, those 
 who have thus suffered are well aware of the aspect the past 
 assumes, even under the most favourable circumstances, if the 
 memory is disturbed and faithless. They know the regret, the 
 remorse, the self-reproaches we feel, and they can judge of the 
 happiness it gave me to find the following letter, and which they 
 will forgive me for not omitting : — 
 
 ' Boury, July 14th, 1837. 
 ' You seek in vain amongst the daughters you know for one 
 who can think and say of their mother what you say and think 
 of yours. Well, my dear child, for my part I wonder if there 
 are many daughters who love their mother as you do. I in- 
 dulged myself by reading to your father and Eugenie the sen- 
 tences which most deeply touched my heart. It might seem to 
 to them, perhaps, that a feeling of personal gratification in- 
 duced me to do so ; but 1 assure you this is not the case, for 
 I fill a secondary place in the picture. It is you, my child, who 
 appear to advantage in it, and that is what I like. 'No better 
 praise can be given to a daughter than to show how she fulfils 
 every desire of her mother's heart. And now I hope you are 
 not going to torment yourself because you have not always 
 been of the same opinion with me. Nothing would have been 
 more insipid, and with regard to contradiction, and its being 
 offensive or not, it depends entirely upon manner. You know 
 how easy it is to bring me round to another opinion than my 
 own, and if my feelings are easily wounded, it is not by oppo- 
 sition so much as by the feeling which seems to prompt it. 
 Let nothing, then, on this head trouble your conscience, for God 
 alone knows how truly I can say that you have never caused me 
 anything but joy.' 
 
 This passage evinces my mother's angelic kindness, but there 
 is another feature in her character which it will not be useless 
 to touch upon, as it will serve to explain much that follows. 
 Together with her great piety and irreproachable virtue, my 
 mother had a strong dislike to anything like intolerance or se- 
 verity towards others, and in spite of her own strict observance 
 of the slightest practices of religion, she did not like anything 
 approaching to exaggeration or eccentricity. Her piety was free 
 from littleness, narrowness, or the slightest disposition to set 
 herself up as an example to others, and to avoid even the least 
 appearance of this, she would sometimes abstain from an act of 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 306 
 
 piety. Eugenie had in reality much the same disposition, but 
 she had never paid much attention to what others thought of 
 her, and after the strong impression she had received at the time 
 of Albert's death, a keen and wonderful disgust ensued for the 
 world and its transient pleasures, together with a passionate, 
 exclusive, and enthusiastic interest in religious subjects ; so that 
 at that time her distaste for everything not immediately con- 
 nected with such thoughts, or with her daily occupations, was 
 perhaps excessive. Prayer, the love of God, and the poor, and 
 devotion to Alexandrine, formed the sum-total of her life, and 
 she took no pains to conceal the fact that outside of this, the re- 
 quirements of the world and the people in it did not seem to her 
 worthy of the shghtest notice. My mother gently combat ted 
 these notions, for she believed that not even under the highest 
 plea is it good to become absorbed in any one line to the detri- 
 ment of that consideration for others which is one of the most 
 excellent forms of charity. Nevertheless, with that humility 
 which she practised, even in the exercise of her maternal autho- 
 rity, she was loath to condemn a feeling springing from so good 
 and pure a cause, and in a letter written at the beginning of 
 1837 she thus expressed this feeling : — 
 
 ' I am ready to acknowledge that I may be mistaken ; but I 
 have always thought it more perfect to make one's self all to all, 
 and to prefer giving up some pious practice, not of obligation, 
 than to annoy or discourage those about us by going far beyond 
 their capability. In short, never to lose sight of the great object 
 of attracting others to the service of God, by making it appear 
 sweet and pleasant to them. I grant that there is something 
 very admirable in a sudden and complete renunciation of the 
 world. Eugenie has chosen the better part, and this may be 
 the judgment God will pass on the difference between her views 
 and mine. I see to what heights her soul easily rises, and how 
 far short of her I remain, and this may be the humbling reason 
 why I do not always understand and approve of what she does. 
 My heavy wings scarcely lift me off the ground — and, indeed, 
 instead of wings I ought to say firm and strong hooks, which 
 rivet me to earth, and only allow me with some effort to raise 
 my head a little, and look at Heaven and all Heavenly things.' 
 
 My mother's gentle remonstrances, to which, at her request, I 
 added mine, were not made in vain, and a few months later she 
 wrote to me as follows : — 
 
 * Eugenie is much improved lately. Last winter no idea of 
 consideration for others on certain points ever entered her head. 
 She brought forward her religious duties full front even in the 
 
 X 
 
306 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 narrowest defiles, and seemed always vexed when she was ad- 
 vised to practise the sHghtest prudence. Now the dear child 
 understands this herself, and does it of her own accord, which 
 gives me great pleasure. She is the first to study what are the 
 most judicious means to adopt on such occasions, and I must say 
 that, for my part, I cannot but think the little efibrts we make 
 to serve God, without shocking or wounding others, are a fresh 
 means of obtaining blessings for ourselves.' 
 
 EI]G:6niE to PAULINE. 
 
 * Boury, July 21st. 
 ' This afternoon the Rios arrived from England. I do love 
 that dear excellent Madame Rio.* She is so good, and it is 
 impossible not to feel at one's ease with so kind-hearted a person. 
 We spoke of you, and immediately felt hke old acquaintances. 
 And, to begin with, as we happen to be tickled by the same 
 jokes, we brought the famous Sifflotte into play to-night, and so 
 had the pleasure of frightening poor Madame Rio, who found 
 our dear little innocent dressed in white, and sitting reading 
 at her table. There is one thing I must ask of you, dearest, 
 which is not to apologise when you find fault with me. Who 
 has so much right to remonstrate as you, Pauhne, who are never 
 unjust ? I only wish I had asked you to do so oftener, and wish 
 I may now follow your advice with a perseverance as great as 
 my present desire to improve. It is since I received your dear 
 letters that mamma is better satisfied with me, and you may, 
 therefore, take the merit of it. Ah ! dear Pauline, make me 
 everything she would like me to be, and I beg of you, on my 
 knees, never praise me again as you sometimes do. Those praises 
 give me a painful feeling, for I know I do not deserve them. 
 Remember, that if on the one hand I do some few things beyond 
 what is of obligation, on the other I neglect essential duties, 
 and what can be so essential as to do everytJiing that the best and 
 dearest of mothers wishes ? Yes, you are right, if anything 
 separated me from my mother, what bitter grief it would be to 
   think of the tears I have made her shed. Ah ! each of those 
 tears which I might have wiped away, which I might have 
 turned into sweetness, but which, through my own fault, I 
 allowed to flow, would then weigh like lead on my heart. Thank 
 you, thank you, for setting before me this painful but powerful 
 consideration, — I call it powerful because I look to its working a 
 change in me, — I am now struggling courageously with my 
 natural character, but I am still full of faults. Be sorry for them, 
 dear Pauline, and pray that I may grow better.' 
 
 * M, Eio had married, in 1834, Miss Jones, of Llanarth. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY, 307 
 
 abb:6 geebet to alexandeine. 
 
 'JuiUy, July 27th, 1837. 
 * I should be very glad, my dear child, to be able to confirm 
 tbe news you have heard.* The newspapers spread the most 
 contradictory reports on this subject, and though I have written 
 to Paris for information, I have no answers yet. Go on praying 
 for that soul, and commend him to Albert's prayers. For my 
 part, I dare not yet rejoice, the uncertainty is still so great, but 
 even the vague hope is something. Thank you for sympathizing 
 beforehand with the happiness I should feel if the news were 
 true, for the break-up of this long and sincere friendship is a 
 bitter thing to me. Pray ; pray that God's grace may work 
 this conversion, which would make me so happy, both as a 
 man and a Priest. Thank Mdlle. Olga for all her messages, and 
 tell me about her. If sometimes when you are writing, Mdlle. 
 Eugenie could, without tiring herself, write me a line on the 
 same sheet, it would give me great pleasure. You know how 
 much I value every letter, every line, from Boury. My dear 
 children, as you all like birds and symbols, I must copy out for 
 you a passage about a Mexican bird, which I read lately, whose 
 old Mexican name is Vicicili, and Gomara describes it thus : — 
 " It is no bigger than a bee, its beak is long and very flexible, 
 it feeds on dew and the fragrance of flowers, flying from one to 
 another, without ever resting on any. Its plumage is a sort of 
 down, variegated with a number of beautiful colours. The 
 Vicicili dies, or rather falls asleep, in the month of October, and 
 remains fastened to a branch by its little claws till the month of 
 April, the time of flowers. Then it wakes up, and thence its 
 name, which means ' raised to life.' " My dear children, this 
 life is our winter. Are we not worth more than many sparrows 
 — worth more than the Vicicili ? Adieu. Good- morning, and 
 good-bye.' 
 
 ' The same night. 
 
 ' The Abbe Martin, who has just come, brings word that there 
 is unhappily no truth in the news we were hoping to hear con- 
 firmed about M. de la Mennais.' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Boury, August 2nd, 1837. 
 ' My dearest Darling, — I am decidedly of opinion that you 
 must make a heroic sacrifice of all further discussion on the 
 
 * Of the return of Mons. de la Mennais to the Church. 
 
 X 2 
 
508 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 chaperonage question, for I think it worries Mamma.* Your 
 letter this morning is, however, extremely amusing, and I 
 myself, the charming object thus fought for, certainly give you 
 my votes, my beloved sisters, and maintain your rights. I dwell 
 upon your indisputable look of dignity, and upon Alexandrine's 
 art of putting on her shawl so as to make herself look like a 
 woman of ninety. In short, my eloquence is all in your favour, 
 but it falls to the ground before my mother's argument that you 
 both look too young, which would indeed be the case with 
 Emma, if Charles' being with her did not make the difference. 
 
 ' I am going, therefore, and must leave my poor Alexandrine ; 
 and on the way back we are to stop at Montgermont [the 
 Countess de Gontaut's], and then afterwards Alexandrine will be 
 going to her mother. But all this is still a long way off, and it 
 requires very few days, or even hours, to set aside many things 
 and many plans. Did I mention to you a little book called 
 L'Ame Uxilee ? A story about a holy girl who is raised from 
 death by a Saint, and who, after languishing for a while on 
 earth, dies again with sorrow at having left Heaven.f You 
 may imagine how I liked it. There are words and thoughts 
 which made my heart beat, by answering to deep, cherished 
 ideas of my own, which I found it difficult to put into words ; 
 and whole passages which made me shed tears of joy from the 
 belief that no one could read them without admiring religion ; 
 and that among these there might be some who would be 
 touched and return to G-od, when once convinced of His mercy, 
 goodness and love. Kh ! Pauline, when will men love one 
 another and love God ? I desire this sometimes so ardently that 
 it makes me quite ill.* 
 
 MONS. DE LA FERRONNAYS TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Boury, August 5th, 1837. 
 ' YouT mother assures me that her last letter to ypu was a 
 real chef-d'oeuvre of idiotcy, and that she is ashamed of having 
 sent it. I made believe to believe her, and thought to myself, now 
 is the time for me to write, for if I lose this opportunity, their 
 wits will return, and they will leave me nothing to say to my 
 dear child, who has been accustomed to letters full of details and 
 interest. These three women, my wife and your two sisters, are 
 the most inexorable of reapers, leaving nothing whatever for the 
 
 * Mme. de la Ferronnays was going to send Eugenie to England with her 
 brother and his wife, after refusing to let her travel the year before alone with 
 Alexandrine or Pauline, 
 
 t L'Ame Ejcilee by Mme. de Hautefeuille. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 gleaners ; so that a poor old fellow like me, however he may 
 wish for a long talk with you, finds himself with nothing to say, 
 and sits before his sheet of blank paper without a single fact 
 that has not been stolen from him beforehand. And yet you find 
 means of writing to us all, to me among the rest, and of telling 
 each one something interesting. For instance, I got this morn- 
 ing your capital letter of the 19th, the third I have received, 
 without answering any one of them. This is rather too bad, and 
 at the risk of proving myself a thousand times more idiotic than 
 your mother, I must make some reply, and so here I am. Your 
 letter gave me great pleasure, like everything else that comes 
 from you ; but the pleasure is a little damped for this once by 
 uneasiness about the position of afiairs at Lisbon. Mind you, I 
 am not talking politics ; I am exclusively occupied with you and 
 Augustus, and not at all with Portugal, which I should never 
 think of if you were not both there. I am neither Gamorrist, 
 Pedrlst, nor Miguelist, for it is all quite uninteresting to me. 
 What I wish and ask is, that nothing may happen in any way 
 which can make you ever so Httle uncomfortable, or disturb the 
 least in the world your peaceful retreat at Cintra. I do hope 
 t'his heartfelt wish may be fulfilled, and that the quasi-revolution 
 may be carried out, or come to nothing, without inconveniencing 
 you or your husband. Still we shall look for news even more 
 impatiently than usual, and we will rejoice at the idea that in 
 future we may hope to receive letters five days earlier than 
 formerly. 
 
 ' If I were younger or richer, I should not refuse myself the 
 pleasure of spending some weeks with you. I know that the 
 voyage is an easy one, and would be still easier to me, who am 
 always well on the sea. It would not even be very expensive, 
 but still at this moment, it would be above my means, and I am 
 obliged to give up, for this year at least, the idea of coming upon 
 you by surprise. 
 
 ' Your sisters, Eugenie and Olga, are gone to England with 
 Charles, and we are left alone with poor Alexandrine. It breaks 
 my heart to see her without Eugenie. Still she must accustom 
 herself little by little to live without this second self, for the 
 time draws near when she will be obliged to leave us to go to 
 her mother, who intends spending the winter in Germany or 
 Italy. Alexandrine thinks she will set out the beginning of 
 October. I had thought I should be obliged to go with her, but 
 suddenly that good Putbus arrived in Paris from I know not 
 where, and says he is coming here in a few days. He is the tra- 
 velling companion par excellence^ and indeed I think it is his only 
 business in life. We shall therefore probably trust Alexandrine 
 
310 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 to his care. I need not tell you how sorry we shall be to lose 
 her, and I hope it is now settled that she is to live with ns when- 
 ever her mother goes to Russia. Boury will soon have a new 
 sad attraction for her. We are getting the cemetery here laid 
 out, where, if Grod wills it, we shall ourselves rest by-and-bye. 
 As soon as it is arranged, we shall have Albert brought here, and 
 I think the transfer may be made in September. You can well 
 understand how his dear and sainted remains will bind us to the 
 place, and how earnestly Alexandrine will then desire to come 
 back to it. She wishes a place to be marked out and kept for 
 her next to him. This is at present the idea which fills our 
 minds, the great subject of our conversations, and the future we 
 look to ; and though to so many people it might seem a sad topic, 
 it is not sad to us. The joys hoped for at the end of our course 
 shine out so brightly that the mind dwells calmly and fearlessly 
 upon the circumstance which must attend their fulfilment. 
 
 ' My dear good child, when your mother and I rest near your 
 sainted brother, you will come to visit and pray for us. And 
 some day, my child, for that day will surely come, your blessed 
 dream will be fully realized.* You have no doubt read the 
 Pere Geramb's letter to the poor Abbe de la Mennais. For a 
 moment, perhaps, you may have shared our hope that the appeal 
 would be listened to, and you will grieve as we have done tliat 
 words of contrition and humility find no echo in a heart over- 
 flowing with pride and anger. My heart aches whenever I think 
 of this terrible case, but at the same time it seems to me that faith 
 becomes more vivid and strong when we measure the abyss into 
 which pride has cast a soul, whose earlier impulses led it so near 
 to Grod. Let us hope on still, for His mercy far exceeds His 
 severity. There are in Heaven and on earth so many praying 
 for this poor strayed sheep, that I cannot but think they will 
 some day obtain pity and pardon, that his long wanderings will 
 be followed by a repentance more striking than the scandal he 
 has given, and that his return will bring back more souls than 
 his apostacy has led astray. I intend at the end of the month 
 to make a journey to Gerbevillers ; from there I shall go on to 
 Montgermont, where I hope to meet your mother and sisters, 
 and then to return to Lumigny, where I shall stay as long as I 
 can be of any use to its poor inmates.f 
 
 ' Farewell, my dear, a thousand times dear and beloved. Pau- 
 line, my most precious daughter, has your mother told you that 
 we often shed tears when we read your letters together ? I 
 
 * A kind of reverie written upon the happiness of meeting in Heaven with all 
 we love in this world, 
 f Mons. and Madame de Mun. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 311 
 
 thank you both for myself and for her. Farewell, my dear 
 
 child, everything kind to Augustus, and my best regards to 
 
 Boislecomte.* Remember me to Lord Anglesea and Lord 
 Clarence Paget.' 
 
 MADAME DE LA FEREONNAYS TO PAULINE. 
 
 * Boury, August 10th, 1837. 
 
 ' The Blessed Sacrament has been brought back to the chapel, 
 ■which is a great joy to me. It is as if a dear and long absent 
 friend had returned to us. The chateau now seems inhabited 
 and filled, and I hope Our Lord blesses the roof under which He 
 deigns to dwell. 
 
 ' I confess I am glad to hear that * * * is living in a 
 thoroughly aristocratic society. It will be very good for him. 
 " What a strange notion ! " you will say. Well ! but I maintain 
 that there are good things in this sort of entourage which seem 
 to grow spontaneously, and do not spring so naturally in soils 
 where no ancient roots exist. I have too often found and felt 
 this not to be convinced of it, which of course does not prevent 
 people of high lineage from doing many things which shame 
 their birth. But I speak generally. 
 
 ' The house is much improved, and is now really charming. 
 Your father's study is thoroughly furnished as well as the library, 
 and now we are busy adorning Eugenie's room to surprise her 
 on her return. I have had a pretty blue satine paper put up, and 
 Alexandrine undertakes the curtains and chair-covers. Dear 
 "Jane" will be very indignant, but I hope very much pleased 
 too. They will be home to-morrow evening, and I long to, sec 
 them. The poor child was so sea-sick that she quite frightened 
 Emma and Olga, for she actually fainted away, and yet I did not 
 hear that the sea was at all rough. I should like you to tell me 
 if you think she only took this little journey to please others, or 
 if she reaUy enjoyed it herself. I know that she has been bright 
 and charming, and never refused to do anything that the others 
 liked, and I was pleased to find that she made no objection to 
 going to the play at Havre. Of course it is not that I care about 
 her liking to go to the theatre, but I rejoice that she was willing, 
 for the sake of others, to give in to what she would not have 
 done of her own accord. I am sure that whatever she did in 
 this way was to please Charles, and that is what I approve of, 
 for I am quite certain that this amiability on her part will have 
 a far better effect upon her brother than a more stifi" and rigid 
 line of conduct. And it is this that gives me pleasure. I do 
 
 * Formerly in the Eussian Embassy, then at Lisbon. 
 
ni2 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 not know if I am right, but I think her repugnance to marriage 
 is not so great as it was, and that she would not now refuse an 
 offer from any one who pleased her.' 
 
 Whilst Eugenie was in England, Alexandrine wrote to her 
 several times in answer to letters in which she dwelt on the 
 enjoyment of her journey, and seemed to have a scruple about it, 
 and to be afraid lest these new impressions should weaken 
 those which the last year had made on her mind. She was, no 
 doubt, easily impressed by change of scene, but this is the case 
 with all young people, and it is, on the other hand, somewhat rare 
 to find a young girl calling herself to so strict an account on that 
 score. Alexandrine's letters are full of the childlike originality 
 which must have been already often noticed in her style of thought 
 and writing, even in the midst of the highest flights of a naturally 
 grave and reflective mind. This something, pecuhar to her, was 
 observable during the most beautiful and romantic time of her 
 youth, the sorrows of after-years could not alter it, and it existed 
 to the very last day of her life, while practising an almost ascetic 
 piety and heroic charity. It was that something which made one 
 smile even in the most deeply affecting moments, and made it 
 possible to say that a person upon whom such heavy afilictions 
 had fallen, and who was led to adopt a line of more than ordinary 
 Christian perfection, was also extremely amusing. The word 
 will sound strangely to those who did not know her. It will 
 surprise them, perhaps, and they will scarcely understand it; and 
 yet if there is one original characteristic which ought to be 
 brought out more than another in a description of Alexandrine, 
 it is certainly that one. Those who remember her, will, I am 
 sure, agree with me, and tears will fill their eyes at the same 
 time that a smile hovers on their lips at the recollection which 
 my words call forth. 
 
 ALEXAKDEINE TO EUGENIE. . 
 
 (While Eugenie was in England.) 
 
 * Boury. 
 
 * My Darling, — Is it really you to whom I am writing ? How 
 strange it is not to see and hear my Eugenie any more than if she 
 were dead ! And it seems to me I bear it very well. This is 
 because I know your absence will be short, and that in a few 
 days I shall enjoy the sight of your countenance again. Ah ! if 
 we could but comfort ourselves in this way for that other parting ! 
 If we had only faith enough we should be able to do this, for 
 expectation is delightful when we are certain that it will be 
 realized. But what weakness it is in me to feel more sure of 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 313 
 
 seeing yon again here than of meeting my beloved one in Heaven ! 
 I hope yon will have returned by the 15th of September, and will 
 be able to give me some of your wonderful advice, which I cannot 
 manage without, and which I shall want then for so many things. 
 Meanwhile, I can tell you that I have managed, acted, thought, 
 and run up and down stairs more than you can imagine, for I do 
 not wish the nation to feel the absence of its sovereign. And 
 now must I send Alix to Paris before you come back, and must I 
 give her a gown ? And must Olympe* go too, and is she also to 
 have a present ? You see what a prime-minister yon have in me, 
 a faithful one at all events, who will be sure to answer you at 
 once. My dear little sister, our friendship is a great blessing. 
 It is as deep and calm as that beautiful Mediterranean sea we so 
 often think of Kiss my little Olga, and say kind things for me 
 to Charles and Emma. Do not forget. I hope yon regret my 
 absence to an extraordinary degree. Are yon amusing yourself ? 
 Write me everything that happens. Twice last night, and this 
 morning at Mass, I have felt sure that our thoughts met. May 
 God bless you, and ask Him to bless me too.' 
 
 ' Boury, August 9th. 
 
 * Good morning, my dear, lovely Angel ! I have a letter from 
 you and one from Mamma. Yon say such deHghtfully kind 
 things. I knew very well yon would miss me, and I do miss 
 talking to yon dreadfully, but otherwise your pretty description 
 of your travels does not make me envious. As regards little 
 journeys, I only want to go to Montigny, or longer ones to Italy, 
 or very long ones to the other world ; though it would indeed 
 interest me to see all the places where I was with Albert again. 
 But did I not tell you that it is very easy to think and meditate 
 while travelling, and seeing God's beautiful scenery spread before 
 our eyes, and I am sure that this thought has been in your mind, 
 notwithstanding other ideas which you mention, and which I had 
 not foreseen would occur to you. I had forgotten what steam- 
 boats are like, and how immediately one looks at the people that 
 go by. But I cannot really see the least bit of harm in that 
 vague notion of vanity my severe Eugenie fancied she felt. So 
 she would like to be ugly ! Had I been you I should certainly 
 have been vain, for formerly I could not see a cat without think- 
 ing what that cat was thinking of me. The word vain, as applied 
 to you, seems to me stranger than I can say. And had Olga any 
 scruples, too, and how many, and did she make you count them ? 
 Tell me a great deal about her, and how her eyes are. 
 
 'My dear, dear friend, it is not that I wish you to become 
 
 * Alix and Olympe were village girls. 
 
314 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 altogether like other people. Provided that you understand wha^ 
 it is to love as I have loved, I am satisfied to see you loving only 
 God. There are different vocations, and if God receives into 
 His Kingdom poor human beings who have loved one another, I 
 can perfectly understand that there are in that same Kingdom 
 souls who have loved Him only. But, nevertheless, you see how 
 some things can easily find their way again into our hearts, since 
 you yourself have begun to understand that this world and its 
 pleasures can have some attractions. 
 
 ' Thank you, dearest, for thinking of iis in the midst of that 
 pretty world of music and flowers which you describe. Such 
 scenes as these would break my heart, and it is to spare myself 
 sufiering that I fly from the sight of pretty things, which show 
 me too really how sweet is that loving life that is ended for m.e. 
 Still, thank God ! they have never — could never make me think 
 that I could find any such life again on earth. I know this as 
 surely as I know that I exist, and that my heart could never be, 
 has never been, given to any one but Albert. But my folly is 
 such that I might perhaps still be susceptible of vanity. It is 
 not dead in me, it still watches its opportunities, and if I were 
 not on my guard, it would perhaps draw me into what I should 
 hate more than the cruellest sufierings. If wisdom consists in 
 shunning danger, I shall be wise, by God's grace, and wiser than 
 ever, now I have seen that even you have felt your moods of 
 mind influenced by change of scene. And, in fact, allowing that 
 some change did take place in you, so that it did not go beyond 
 a certain point, I should not see the least shadow of harm in it ; 
 but as regards myself, the slightest leaning towards the world 
 would be odious. 
 
 ' My dear sister, these Httle odds and ends of letters will be a 
 record of our present feelings and dispositions, which it will 
 interest us to read over some day if we remain a long time on 
 earth. You know how much I like written recollections of what 
 we have felt and seen. Last year, we had our correspondence at 
 the time I was at Kreuznacht, and every year there will be short 
 partings — God grant they may be only short — which will give 
 us opportunities of testing our progress on the Heavenward way. 
 Constancy and hope are blessings enough for this valley of tears. 
 My good angel, you say you are less fervent now you are away 
 from me ; this is flattering me too much. And on my part I have 
 thought, " Well, now Eugenie is gone, I should not be surprised 
 if I sink into a state of wretched tepidity. Friendship helps us 
 on wonderfully in the narrow path of goodness." I cried bitterly 
 yesterday in my own room. I had been to Gisors with your 
 parents in the morning, and as I walked silently along the street 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 315 
 
 between them I thought, — ! I thought : " How can I ever live 
 in this way without him ? Without that dear gentle friend, so good, 
 so amiable, so kind, who made everything bright to me, a.nd threw such 
 a charm over my life ! " Pray for me, my good angel. Kiss all 
 the others for me, and tell Emma her children are darlings. I 
 am- working at the Httle chemises, and cut out, and tack, and 
 piece, and it amuses me more than I can describe.' 
 
 ' Bomy, August 19tli. 
 
 ' I am going to write you a line, for I am just now at leisure. 
 Why are you silent ? The first day that passed without a letter 
 from you, your father began to be uneasy : to-day he says he heard 
 a bat screaming, which put him in mind of the German ideas 
 about bad omens. This little bit of superstition touched me, and 
 then I thought : " Suppose I were to hear that Eugenie was 
 dead ! " I dare say I should faint away for the only time in my 
 life ; but I should be the first to think, " She has now what she 
 so much wished for ! " And yet it would be your poor unhappy 
 Alex who would miss you the most. Even your parents, who 
 love you as much as I do, would not be so bereaved as me, for 
 they would still have one another to turn to, and their other 
 children to love. Still my heart would bleed for them if such 
 a misfortune were to befall us. Thank God we can speak of these 
 things calmly, and I hope that when that solemn time comes for 
 any of us it will still be the same. 
 
 ' I must tell you that Jeanne has succeeded Louise in the kitchen, 
 and that after all my praises, she is found to have every kind of 
 fault. I should also say that there has been a cabal against me 
 in the said kitchen, but I maintain a dignified silence. Still I 
 am a coward at heart, and look forward impatiently to your 
 return as a protection. At prayers, too, I actually have the creeps 
 from shyness — I have said prayers twice instead of you, once 
 before Mme. de Lagrange, Mme. d'Istrie, Mdlle. de Classe, and the 
 lawyer, who came that evening to make the agreeable. Whilst 
 I was saying the prayers as loud as I could, I kept inwardly 
 repeating, " ! my God, forgive me for this stupid shyness, 
 which is nothing but vanity," — for I am always dwelling upon 
 what people will think of me. Every time I repeat the Pater and 
 Credo I am so dreadfully afraid of making a mistake that it gives 
 me the cramp ! 
 
 ' Yesterday Mdlle. Helene came to ask me for a straw mattress, 
 because she says she is determined to remain at Boury. When I 
 asked her what she was thinking of doing, she answered that you 
 were going to find her a situation ; and she had not sense enough 
 to master the fact that the situation would make her leave Boury, 
 
316 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 where she declares she will stay ! She is horribly stupid. I 
 think yon will like to hear all this village news, though I have 
 not spared my neighbour. The children's whooping cough is 
 better, and the day before yesterday, I boldly gave the remedy 
 used by the Superioress at the Hospital. I go on stealing butter 
 and stripping your gooseberry-bushes. Julian has made me some 
 excellent syrup of marsh-mallow, and I amuse myself in the best 
 way I can. I shall leave oflf now. My dear little woman, how 
 long it is since I have seen you ! Our little nephews are charm- 
 ing. Kiss everybody for me.' 
 
 THE ABB^ GERBET TO ALEXANDRmE. 
 
 'Juilly, August 6th, 1837. 
 
 * I grieve for you, my dear child, at your dear sister's absence, 
 and I hope it will not be long ; but now that your over-active 
 mind will be left more to itself, try to restrain its self-tormenting 
 power. I suppose by your asking for careful answers to your 
 questions, which you number like those of the famous letter to M. 
 le Due,* that you concluded I was not going to Boury, and that 
 you would only see me at most for two or three days in Paris. 
 My yesterday's scrawl, such as it was, will have undeceived you, 
 and I presume that you would now rather have viva voce answers, 
 which I can give you, please God, next week. I shall then be 
 much better able to answer your thoughts than I can in a letter, 
 but I will nevertheless make some general remarks this evening, 
 to quiet a little that activity of imagination which fatigues you 
 so much. And first, my dear child, do not be always putting this 
 kind of question to yourself: What should I do — what should I 
 feel — if God clwse to ordain such and such things ? This habit is at 
 once useless and dangerous. 
 
 ' When you imagine, for instance, something that seems to you 
 to contradict our ideas of God's goodness, you place your under- 
 standing and will in opposition to one another, and consequently 
 in a false position. You cannot find a satisfactory solution, and 
 it is only by setting aside some hypothesis not admissible that 
 you can recover peace of mind. And, moreover, even granting 
 these suppositions not to be altogether impossible, you should not 
 dwell upon them when they imply the existence of extraordinary 
 circumstances, which would call upon the will to make some ex- 
 ceedingly difficult efibrt. As I have often told you, the necessary 
 graces are given us to do what God actually asks of us, and we 
 must remain convinced that if we should be placed in extra- 
 
 * There is no explanation of this aUnsion. [Translator.] 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 317 
 
 ordinary circumstances, as, for instance, in the case of martyrdom, 
 God would then give ns the strength we should stand in need of. 
 If you would be at peace, my dear child, look on all these tor- 
 menting thoughts in the light of noxious creepers, which a good 
 gardener roots up because they absorb the sap of the tree. 
 
 ' Remember me to the good people of the village, to the Prudent 
 family, Mere Lafosse, and Mons. and Mme. Brebion, Good-night, 
 my dear child. I must finish my Office before midnight, and shall 
 end the day by praying for you.' 
 
 COUNT DE MONTALEMBEKT TO ALEXANDEINE. 
 
 ' Villersexel, August 8th, 1837. 
 
 ' My very dear Friend, — You surely might have added a word 
 to the Cravens' thick packet, though, by your idleness, you no 
 doubt wished to remind me that I am in your debt for your July 
 letter. Well, I consider myself so reminded, and therefore answer 
 at once. It was a little wrong of you not to have written to me 
 from Paris from the Rue de Madame, during the solemn and holy 
 days you spent there, instead of waiting to go back to Boury. But 
 you have a right to be much forgiven. I reckoned also on hearing 
 news of you from Rio. It must have been a real comfort to have 
 seen him during your sad anniversaries, for he was Albert's faith- 
 ful friend, and contributed more than any one else to develop in 
 in him those feelings of tenderness and enthusiasm which after- 
 wards produced such good results. 
 
 ' Alas ! for our poor Roman trio, for that time when we all first 
 knew you, and our Albert was studying so zealously, even in the 
 midst of his love for you. He wrote volumes of notes on Italian 
 and Tuscan history, with a little scaldino between his legs, in the 
 enormous cold room he lodged in at the Palazzo Giustiniani. I 
 may say that the pleasantest and brightest recollections of my 
 youth are connected with Albert. After all my political agita- 
 tions at Paris in 1831, he cheered me by his charming kindness, 
 his warmth of heart, his ardent friendship, and intense admiration 
 for everything great, beautiful and good. In the midst of my 
 present happiness my thoughts incessantly revert with emotion 
 to those troubles of my youth, in which Albert always took the 
 kindest interest. Many outward things remind me of him, even 
 here where he never was. In the first place, we are reading 
 Dante, and at every verse I come across some of those passages 
 which were our favourites at Pisa. I think of those pleasant 
 evenings, so peaceful and so agreeably occupied, when we three 
 were together, and we were still so full of hopes of his recovery. 
 I include myself, though I knew long before you did, what the 
 
318 A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 doctors really thought of his case. Then I have read over with 
 my wife many of my old Journals, where I find Albert's name in 
 almost every page ; and latterly, I copied out again that passage 
 of his own Journal that you sent me last year to Venice, and I 
 still maintain that I have never read anything more full of devout 
 inspiration and enthusiasm. I must tell you an idea I have. I 
 have thought of including in my series of works upon the Catholic 
 ages, a special book upon Christian Love and Marriage. Albert's 
 fragment has very much confirmed me in this plan, and has sug- 
 gested the idea of embodying in it the story of your lives by way 
 of epilogue, to show that even in our degenerate age some pri- 
 vileged souls know how to be faithful to the holy traditions of 
 which the Middle Ages have left us such numerous examples. 
 Tell me if this idea smiles upon you. But in any case, I shall not 
 be able to carry it out till ten years hence, when my age and 
 position may shelter me from the animadversions of scandal-tBlhing 
 individuals ! Meanwhile, keep carefully for me everything that 
 Albert wrote, either to you or of you, and especially that little 
 book of which I should so like to read the whole.' 
 
 ALEXANDEINE TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 • Boury, August 11th, 1837. 
 
 ' See what pleasure your letter, received this morning, has 
 given me ! Here I am writing to you again, though I have 
 already done so yesterday. But yesterday it was to ask you to 
 do me a kindness, and to-day it is because I want to talk to you. 
 I am so pleased with your letter. Everything you say about 
 Albert touches me greatly, though I think it quite natural ; but, 
 my dear friend, we must speak and not write. Why do you not 
 come to Boury ? I venture to say that it would interest you. 
 You ought to see it once, this poor Boury, and Eugenie and 
 Olga's school, who, with Grod's help are going to make all the 
 inhabitants of the village good Christians ; and then our chapel, 
 with the organ, and our night prayers, and our village choir, and 
 my room so full of memorials of Albert, &c., &c. Tell me 
 quickly if at least you will not be in Paris before I go away. 
 
 ' I come back to the pleasure your letter gave me. It was 
 particularly welcome at a time when Eugenie and the Abbe 
 Gerbet are both absent. To hear Albert praised as you praise 
 him, rejoices my heart. Dear friend, the idea of your writing 
 our story, does smile upon me. Only imagine that the same 
 thought had crossed my mind. You are the only person to 
 whom I would entrust this work, for you would write our story 
 as it ought to be written, in a Christian manner, but at the 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 319 
 
 same time, without that kind of austerity whicli always frightens 
 me. I know, also, my dear friend, your love of truth, and I feel 
 sure that, though you would make it an epilogue to your book, 
 you would say nothing that had not really happened, and with 
 this view, what I am now writing will be of great use to you. 
 It is a full Journal of our life, in which you will find all that 
 Albert wrote. Unfortunately I have as yet only finished one 
 year of it, which I showed to Rio, who thought it interesting, 
 but for some time past I have been longing for an opportunity to 
 show it to you. All Albert's letters to you are copied into it. 
 O ! yes, dear friend, it would be indeed a work worthy of you, 
 as well as a great satisfaction to me, whom God made so happy 
 in my marriage, if you were to show the world how good and 
 desirable that kind of happiness is ; that there is nothing so 
 sweet on earth as a love which we are not afraid of owning 
 before God and men, and that two human beings can never so 
 fully enjoy their mutual afiection as when they both serve with 
 one mind the God Who created them. Albert was far more 
 advanced than I was in this Divine love, but I understood all he 
 felt, and was glad to see him as he was. For even in my 
 frivolous days I wished to have a husband better than myself, 
 and I think this is one of the wishes that God often rewards. 
 
 ' ! Mental, if you could contrive, by writing the story of 
 your best friend, to make the cold and dull world understand all 
 this, how glorious it would be for you, for Albert, and for me ! I 
 hope I should not wish to enjoy that glory in this world, for it 
 would make me too proud, though it was all owing to Albert. I 
 know there are in our story a number of details which make it 
 as interesting as some old chronicle. That first meeting at 
 Rome, and the words we exchanged at the doors of the church, 
 when he rebuked me for human respect. The offering he made 
 of his life, and of every earthly blessing, to obtain my conversion ; 
 then the little fact you remember, of the strip of paper torn off" 
 my note-book ; the fright I had about the duel at Pompeii, and 
 the tears I could not conceal ; Albert's exile to Rome, and 
 Fernand's little artifice to get me to write to him ; that happy 
 life the following winter, under the same roof as his family ; 
 Mamma beginning to revolve in her mind the possibility of our 
 marriage, and our both being aware of it, but not venturing to 
 speak to one another on the subject, yet still feeling secure in the 
 strength of our mutual attachment ; then our departure for 
 Germany, and his for France ; our being delayed at Rome, whilst 
 he was dying at Civita Vecchia ; my despair, which made me 
 exclaim, " O ! if only I were his wife !" 
 
 ' I am sure God heard that cry, as my mother also did, and at 
 
320 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 last — ^after seven months' absence — we met again at N'aples, with 
 every obstacle removed. And then I found in him an angel of 
 whom I was not worthy, and in our marriage such peace and 
 happiness as I never believed could exist. Then followed our 
 brief paradise at Castellamare, and my first anxiety about his 
 health. You know it all, and what ensued, but tw one will ever 
 understand the wonderful mixture of sorrow, love, and joy, of 
 our life. You will make me out to be far better than I am, and 
 the story will gain by it. People will believe that I made Albert 
 as happy as he deserved to be ; they will think of me as the 
 tenderest of wives, whereas I could have been such a much 
 better one, and have made him much happier, just as I would do 
 now if I had him back again. But you can never, Montal, 
 relate all that was admirable in him, for you can never know it 
 yourself. Even I cannot remember half the dear words by 
 which, even in our very first conversations, he tried to draw 
 me to Grod. At Venice, on the evening of his terrible attack, 
 the first words he said to me, as soon as he could speak, were 
 these : " \VTien I awoke, I felt such deep love of God, and then 
 for you, that it took away my breath." This he said with a 
 smile. Was not that sentence the epitome of his life ? And 
 then add to them the last words he ever wrote, and those which 
 he uttered from time to time, and the whole history of my con- 
 version. 
 
 ' Yes, I am sure, and I thank God for it, that all that makes up 
 an interesting record, which may do good some day to those 
 who will read it. ! Montal, tell me that I shall see him 
 again without danger of ever losing him, and that I shall love 
 him as much as I did on earth. Why should I fear that the 
 presence and worship of God in Heaven should lessen our love, 
 which never lessened our love of God on earth ? On the contrary, 
 the more we loved each other, the more I think we seemed to live 
 in His sight. 
 
 * I am not afraid of having tired you with these reminiecences 
 of a life which you are thinking of writing. I mentioned the 
 subject to my mother-in-law, who only observed that no names 
 should be given, but this was before she heard it was only to be 
 ten years hence. We shall have time enough to consider of this 
 later. You will not complain any more of my silence, though you 
 have a marvellous talent for defending yourself by attacking 
 others. Farewell, my dear brother and friend Montai. May God 
 love you, and all whom you love.' * 
 
 * This letter seems to me fully to sanction the work I have undertaken. 
 Alexandrine was indeed intrusting it to one who would have performed it with 
 as miich reverence and respect, and far more talent than myseK ; but thirty 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 321 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 * On Thursday the letter arrived which informed my father 
 that all the arrangements for the transfer of Albert's beloved 
 remains to Boury were complete. Alex and I went to Paris with 
 him on Friday, to bring back the body of our dearest one. The 
 journey and the whole day were very impressive. My mother 
 and sisters waited at the Cross at the entrance of the village, and 
 knelt down when the carriages came in sight. Soon the Abbe 
 Gerbet appeared at the head of the procession, the whole village 
 following him. He blessed the coffin, Mamma and Alexandrine 
 kissed it, and then the procession formed and passed through the 
 garden and the court of the chateau on its way to the church. 
 This then was the way in which Albert was to arrive at Boury, 
 which he had so longed to see, and to which he had looked 
 forward as the scene of so much future happiness ! I took 
 Alexandrine's arm, and we walked close to the coffin. Poor 
 Alex, how touching she looked ! Her tears, her large tears, 
 flowed fast ; but in her whole figure there was a calmness, a 
 simplicity, and a resignation so deeply Christian ! I cannot tell 
 you how it affected me ! The carriage stopped before the church 
 steps, and we all knelt down while the coffin was carried into the 
 church. After Vespers, we went to the cemetery. You know 
 the road and how pretty it is. The evening was beautiful, and 
 during the sorrowful journey, many comforting thoughts of hope 
 in a happy meeting again, filled our minds. Before the coffin 
 was let down into the grave, the Abbe Gerbet said a few words, 
 which I send you ; and then that dear body, which had suffered 
 so much, was finally laid in its last resting-place, where room is 
 prepared, when it shall please God, for her whom he loved so 
 well. She looked with a kind of joy into that empty grave, 
 which, though now closed for a little space, shall be re-opened 
 when all her troubles have ceased — when her submission to 
 God's will, her constancy, and her love, shall have won for her 
 the promised reward, for she will have much suffered and much 
 loved.' 
 
 EUGJ^NIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 'October 29th, 1837. 
 
 * Yesterday the great stone which is to cover both graves with 
 a single opening — for there is no division between them on the 
 inside — was brought home. There is no separation between 
 
 years instead of ten have elapsed since that time, and M. de la Montalembert's 
 life has been devoted to other objects. I think, therefore, that the present 
 publication is the fulfilment of the wishes expressed in the foregoing pages. 
 
 y 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 them, and the two coffins will touch one another, as our poor 
 dear little sister wished. Since the day the corpse was transferred, 
 the grave had been temporarily closed in with planks, which \Yere 
 taken away yesterday, and Alexandrine was able to carry out a 
 wish she had formed, but did not know how to execute. I tell 
 it you as a secret, for she would not let it be known, lest people 
 should think it too strange. Yesterday, with Julian's help and 
 a httle ladder, she went down into the grave, which is not very 
 deep, that she might once more touch and kiss the coffin which 
 holds what she best loved on earth. To do this she had to kneel 
 in her own grave ! Here is food for meditation ; and indeed, 
 since that grave was opened, we have made many reflections that 
 the world would call sad, but which we are happy enough not to 
 think so.* 
 
 MONS. DE LA FEERONNATS TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Boury, October 27th, 1837. 
 
 * I have spent five weeks at Gerbeviller,* and the day after 
 returning to Boury I went to Paris, as you already know, with 
 Alexandrine and Engenie, to bring back Albert's precious remains. 
 This journey, and the coming back, would have been very trying 
 to many people. Well, I cannot tell you what unspeakable 
 sweetness filled my mind, though I felt more keenly than ever the 
 blank which the loss of this dear child has made in our home. 
 But he is happy ; yery, very happy ... 
 
 * Dear Pauline, how glorious faith is ; how good it is to believe 
 — to hope ; and how beautiful death is when it opens the gates 
 of eternal life. I do pity those who condemn themselves to live 
 without faith, and to suffer, pine, and die without hope. I hear 
 that you often have scruples and fears, but ! my dear daughter, 
 do not so wrong our good God or yourself. Why, I am full of 
 trust and hope — and if you only knew what I am ! — if you are 
 afraid, I ought to die in despair. Do not let us be appalled by 
 those terrible threats which it is necessary to address to 
 hardened and impenitent sinners. We must thank God who 
 wills to save us all, that He thus threatens those whom His love 
 cannot soften, and who refuse to give Him their hearts. But 
 when we are not of the number of the wilfully rebellious, when 
 we beheve and love, we have the right — and it even becomes a 
 duty — to hope and expect every blessing from God, who is all 
 love for faithful souls, and all mercy for those who offend Him. 
 Believe me, do not listen to any teachers but such as speak of 
 God with love, and lead you to love Him, and avoid and fly from 
 
 * Belcuging to the Marquis de Lambertye, n^e Eohan-Chabot. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 323 
 
 every one wto would make you afraid of Him. But what 
 business have I to be holding forth in this way ? Forgive me, 
 my dear child, I am like Gros-Jean preaching to his cure. 
 
 ' I was telling you how we brought Albert back to this little 
 corner, where we all hope to rest one after the other, and where 
 Albert has the half of a large grave, the other half of which is 
 intended for dear Alex. You will understand all I would say 
 without my putting it into words, and will feel as I did that 
 that blessed spirit was hovering over those who loved him so 
 deeply, and whom he so doated upon during his short life. This 
 is one of the wonders of our wonderful religion. In that grave, 
 which, to the unbeliever, presents nothing but silence and despair, 
 faith shows us the portal of true life, and an eternity of happi- 
 ness. And this is the belief of which our so-called philosophers 
 would fain deprive us ! What monstrous wickedness, or rather, 
 what inconceivable folly ! 
 
 ' This dear cemetery will become the object of our daily pil- 
 grimage, where we shall go to pray for him, and to ask his 
 prayers. You, too, will come there with us, dear Pauline, for I 
 do hope that you will not remain much longer in a country which 
 seems to me a little too uncivilized, and you may think how 
 delighted we should be if you could spend some months at Boimj 
 Abbey. Yesterday we kept your mother's fifty-fifth birthday, 
 and on the fourth of December I shall be turned sixty. At our 
 age it is natural to feel rather eager for a much-desired pleasure, 
 which, if long delayed, we may not live to enjoy. 
 
 ' Farewell, my dear, excellent child. Tell your husband that 
 I love him for his own sake, and for yours too, which makes up, 
 I can assure you, a very powerful mixture of affection. Do nob 
 be anxious about my political opinions, for they have nothing 
 whatever to do with my feelings, and whetTier they agree with 
 yours or not, we are neither of us so foolish as to allow them to 
 influence our affection or disturb our comfort. Good-by again, 
 my precious Pauline, your old father's joy. I love you, darling, 
 as nobody can love w^ho has not a daughter like you. I say 
 nothing for the others, as they write volumes themselves.' 
 
 It was just at this time, when the very last duties had been 
 performed in Albert's case, that Eugenie, Alexandrine's insepa- 
 rable companion, whom we have hitherto seen setting her face 
 resolutely towards Heaven, and turning her back on all earthly 
 joys, was suddenly induced to pause and to deliberate whether 
 she should accept or not a proffered happiness, different in cir- 
 cumstances from any she had pictured to herself, and already 
 rejected in imagination. Under the form now presented, this 
 lot, instead of involving any return to the world, seemed effec- 
 
 T 2 
 
324 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 tually to preclude it. In all respects this opening apparently 
 bore the impress of God's will. A true, deep, and even at twenty 
 years of age, already a long- cherished attachment ; a course of 
 self-devotion and sacrifice, with a generous confidence offered ; a 
 life spent in complete retirement ; a place to be filled, instead of 
 in the gay world, by a desolate hearth ; and a sorrow as deep and 
 far more bitter than Alexandrine's, to be soothed and comforted ; 
 such was the lot offered to Eugenie. 
 
 I think I shall not transgress the limits of the strictest veracity 
 when I say that the last-mentioned circumstances were those 
 that determined her consent. Having been led, so young, to 
 love Grod ardently, and despise the world, I think she would not 
 have been at first attracted by the mere prospect of a happy 
 domestic life. An irresistible instinct of devotedness and self- 
 sacrifice had, I believe, greater power over her at the outset than 
 the feelings she had herself inspired, and also shared, but which 
 alone, I think, would not have sufficed to induce her to change 
 her course of life. This thought was a comfort to me when I 
 afterwards questioned, with the bitter sorrow softened by time 
 only, why that heart, so free, so unhampered, and so joyously 
 ready to quit this world, must again be fastened to earth, and 
 made to undergo both the joys and the pangs of a wife and 
 mother. It helped me to answer this question, and to believe in 
 the mercy hidden under the seeming trial. A doubt as to her 
 real vocation, which had flitted hke a shadow across my mind after 
 Albert's decease, and which rose up again in the midst of my 
 grief at her own death, was never entertained by my mother, 
 whose judgment upon this point was no doubt safer and more 
 discerning than mine. Together with a great independence of 
 character, Eugenie possessed an impressionable nature, which no 
 doubt formed one of her greatest charms. This disposition did 
 not in the least interfere with her ardent piety or fervent charity, 
 but it seemed to forbid all idea of a cloistered life. My mother 
 had always endeavoured to combat the effects of this tendency, 
 of which Eugenie was conscious herself, and on this account 
 dreaded the world and the world's influence. But between the 
 two extremes, family life in the retirement of home seemed the 
 true sphere in which to exercise all her good and attractive qua- 
 lities, and thus, when this lot fell to her choice, my mother felt, 
 with reason, that the true object of Eugenie's life was attained, 
 and that her wishes for her were fulfilled. 
 
 Time enough has now elapsed to enable me to relate fearlessly 
 all the facts contained in this narrative, but sometimes the ques- 
 tion arises whether, in drawing out some of the characters, I may 
 not touch upon things too sacred and delicate to be made public. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 325 
 
 Still, is it not the inner history of the sonls I have loved that I 
 am relating, and not the mere external events of their lives ? It 
 is a true history, not a panegyric, that I have undertaken, and 
 what will be its value if it is not carried out, and if, stripping it 
 of its originality, I purposely bring forward only the touching, 
 edifying, or even elevated side of the picture ? These reflections 
 decided me to quote a passage from one of my mother's letters, 
 relative to Eugenie's character, and it will also show how deeply 
 convinced she was that Eugenie's vocations did not tend in the 
 direction I had supposed. 
 
 ' Ah ! my dear child, do not say that you think all is finished 
 for my dear " Jane," and that so many gifts are to be buried out 
 of sight and lost. Believe me, there is something in her disposi- 
 tion akin to that of the little boy in the story-book, who, when it 
 was winter, and he went out sledging and making snowballs, ex- 
 claimed, ''''Ah! if winter loould only last for ever T^ — bat when 
 spring came with all its flowers, "0.^ / wish spring would never 
 end .'" and so on through the summer and autumn. At Paris she 
 thought she could never live out of Paris, and that its religious 
 advantages and interests of all kinds were as necessary to her as 
 the air she breathed ; and now she is here, she cannot think how 
 she could ever leave her chapel and the poor to go to Paris. If 
 only some such circumstances should occur as I sketch out for 
 her in my dreams, I see no reason why she should be impene- 
 trable to a new impression ; and you really grieve me by seeming 
 to accept for her the Ufe she has shaped for herself under the in- 
 fluence of the moment, and without any thought of the future. 
 Well, God will provide, and, as you say, we have had too many 
 proofs of His care not to leave everything to Him, and place our- 
 selves entirely in His hands. I ask nothing for Eugenie but that 
 I may know His will with regard to my dear child, and that He 
 may continue His blessings to her.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Boury, November 7th, 1837. 
 * My dear Pauline, — Eugenie is writing to you in the drawing- 
 room, where everybody is busy, so that I am giving myself the 
 pleasure of a little gossip with you as well as the rest. It is per- 
 haps an omen, along with several other little things, that for the 
 first time I cannot find a sheet of black-edged paper, — which, 
 however, is a part of my mourning I do not intend to give up. 
 This is a parenthesis, before coming to a wonderful thing, a thing 
 most unlooked-for, a singular instance of the strangeness of life. 
 You must certainly have already had a hint of it from your 
 
326 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 mother, wlio hides nothing from you. Now for the fact — but I 
 shall not say much, partly because I am very prudent, and do not 
 wish to commit myself, aud also because I do not yet feel sure of 
 anything. But I must say that I am rather puzzled, and it seems 
 to me as if Eugenie's great aversion to marriage was sliglitly 
 shaken. Poor darling ! I know she would be vexed with me if 
 she read this, and it might even put an end to that dawning 
 inclination. We must be careful, for the least imprudent word 
 might nip the little flower that is just beginning to peep through 
 the snow. So, dear Pauline, you must begin by writing to me, 
 but upon a separate sheet, and, for Heaven's sake, not enclosed in 
 a letter to Eugenie. Take care you make no mistake, and when 
 you write to her, do not indulge in the smallest approach to a 
 jest on the subject. Do not even give the slightest hint, if you 
 wish for this marriage ! 
 
 ' I scarcely know yet what to wish myself, but I see very 
 clearly that M. de Mun is not the least, the least disagreeable to 
 Eugenie, and I think it not impossible that he may take her heart 
 by surprise, provided he knows how to manage well, as I rather 
 think he does. I must tell you, Paule, that I do not think it pre- 
 sumptuous to say that Eugenie's heart is a little in my hands. 
 I am almost frightened to find out this, and at the great responsi- 
 bility it lays upon me. I pray that every word I say to that dear 
 angel, and to every one else about her, may be rightly guided. 
 I did not know I had such influence over her, and thought, on 
 the contrary, that it was she who governed me. In the mean- 
 time, she still goes on saying the same things as she did some 
 months back, that she would rather be burnt alive than change 
 her state of life, &c. Then I represent to her, that unless she is 
 absolutely resolved never to marry, it is better to accept a good 
 husband whom she can love, than run the risk of making some 
 marriage without affection later on, only to please her father and 
 mother.' 
 
 ' Wednesday. 
 
 * Ah ! do come quickly, dear Paule, that we may plot together 
 for Eugenie's happiness. The Abbe Gerbet thinks her vocation 
 really is to marry, and does no't at all allow that her heart is 
 closed to earthly affections. This ought to give me confidence as 
 to the influence I think I can exert ; and yet I am sometimes 
 tempted to feel remorse at seeking to turn a single ray which 
 now goes straight, into another direction, to Grod. " But are 7iot 
 the rays which go most directly to God as their Centre, those lohich 
 follow the leadings of His Providence i* '' (I underline this sen- 
 tence, because I repeat after the Abbe, who said I had not 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 327 
 
 written it at first correctly.) Answer me quickly, and write 
 
 to me.' 
 
 MADAME DE LA FERRONNATS TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Boury, November 22nd, 1837. 
 *My dear Child, — I am a great deal too much agitated to 
 write at length to-day. Everything is arranged for Eugenie's 
 marriage, and so speedy, so sudden a conclusion has thrown me 
 into a state of indescribable agitation. I can hardly connect two 
 sentences together ; but I send you some letters to read, which, 
 with these hurried Hues, will make you understand what I can 
 scarcely express — the gratitude with which my poor heart is 
 overflowing. Join me in thanking God. But, my dear child, 
 is it possible that we must have the sorrow of your not being 
 with us at the time ? If you could possibly be here by Feb- 
 ruary, we should certainly wait till then. Send me word quickly 
 what we may hope for on this point, for I shall look for your 
 answer most impatiently.' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 * November 23rd, 1837. 
 *My dear Paule, — Forgive me for not writing. I reckoned 
 on doing so at length to-day, but the day is gone by, and I have 
 had so many things to think about — naturally enough, you will 
 say, — that I have not had time to breathe, and just as I was 
 going to write you a long letter, things happened one after an- 
 other so quickly that I have scarcely knowm what I was about. 
 Dear Pauline, can it be possible that you will not be present while 
 all this is going on ? Ah ! do come. Dear Augustus, do bring 
 her, for I cannot do without her now ! I hope God is guiding 
 me, for I know nothing, and pray for nothing else. You may 
 fancy whether I have been able to carry on a regular Journal in 
 the midst of this hurry. However, I am quite calm, and may 
 God vouchsafe to watch over one who so much wished to belong 
 to Him alone. Ah ! life — life is short, but there is time in it for 
 great changes, and joy and sorrow take care to save it from 
 monotony, I have one distinct wish, and that is, always to love 
 death, and to desire to see God above all things. Yes, Heaven 
 above all things ! I certainly feel this even at this moment. I 
 have not lost the relish for Heaven ! ' 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 ' ' Boury, November 26th. 
 
 * You are right in thinking that what I am most anxious about 
 
328 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 at this moment is to place it beyond doubt that whatever may be 
 the change in my lot, I cannot allow anything to alter my inti- 
 macy with Alexandrine. And as she is determined to spend the 
 greater part of her life in France, she shall divide it, please 
 God, between Boury, Paris, and Lumigny. Ah ! dear Paule, 
 this is why I wish for you so much, because you can speak out 
 so much more boldly than I can ; for though where Alexandrine 
 is concerned I am pretty bold, I have not courage enough to say 
 all I feel on that subject, and the dread of any change in my 
 intimate friendship with Alex has given me more than one fit of 
 wretchedness.' 
 
 * Monday, November 27th. 
 
 ' I wish I could send you all the letters I have received. They 
 have renewed my hopes of not being separated from Alex, and 
 this is why I am writing in better spirits than yesterday. The 
 letters from Lumigny show that it will be perfectly easy for her 
 to stay with us whenever she wishes. So that between Boury, 
 and Albert's grave, and Lumigny, and me, the bereaved hfe of 
 our dear sister will be as happy as it ever can be. In short, I 
 have every reason to hope that, through God's mercy and Albert's 
 prayers, Adrian will prove the earthly protector of our friend- 
 ship. 
 
 ' And so I am going to be married ! Ah ! Pauline, I have 
 been very happy, very peaceful. Who knows that this will not 
 now be changed, and ! how I wish you were here ! Will you 
 come, will you come ? When will our minds be at rest on that 
 point ? ' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 • Boury, December 29th, 1837. 
 ' One word to you this evening, dear Paule, as I am going to Paris 
 to-morrow. Poor Boury ! I am leaving it now, with all the 
 recollections of the calm and happy life I have led hero, and I 
 shall return to it in the midst of excitement, and not feeling like 
 my own self. I am still very much bewildered. Yesterday when 
 Adrian went away, and said it was the last time he should leave 
 Boury without me, it seemed very strange, and to-day, when I 
 thought that the next time I see the house it will be in a state of 
 confusion, and the preparations for my marriage going on, I was 
 very much agitated, but I go on repeating to myself, " God help 
 us ! " I have been setting to rights my dear chapel that I had 
 decorated with such joy for the beautiful Christmas IS'ight. Our 
 Midnight Mass was magnificent — the organ — the singing — the 
 number of lights — the Altar and windows covered with pink 
 flowers — it was all very beautiful and devotional. How many 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 thoTiglits that chapel brought to my mind, and how I notice 
 everything now that I am about to change my state of life. I 
 only hope nothing may ever change the feelings of my heart. 
 Good-night, we are to start very early, and I am sleepy. Your 
 last letter touched me deeply. Ah ! Pauline, if you were not to 
 be here for my wedding, it would be a sorrow for our whole 
 life. Let us pray that this may not be.' 
 
 ' Lumigny, January 4tli, 1838. 
 
 ' Your last letters make me afraid you will not come. The 
 idea is so intolerable, that I have not even once admitted the 
 possibility of such a disappointment. ! do let me see you 
 again before the great change ; let me have a few days with you 
 and Alex such as we three used to spend together. Let us pray 
 that God's goodness may bring this about, and make your pas- 
 sage a safe one, for indeed it is a trying journey for you, my 
 poor dear little sister. 
 
 ' We are, as you see, at Lumigny. My heart aches for Adrian's 
 parents, now about to become mine. God alone can soften such 
 grief as theirs. Joy and sadness attended my arrival ; and 
 tears were the only language on either side. God knows that 
 this element of sorrow at a time where everything is generally 
 fall of joy, is an additional link between us ; it increases ray 
 tenderness for them, and my gratitude to God. 
 
 ' There are so many things I should like to say to you, so many 
 particulars which it is impossible to write, especially as there is 
 some hope of seeing and speaking to you soon. But in the 
 meantime I must tell you that I love Adrian, not so much as 
 he deserves, but still enough to leave me no room to doubt of 
 my own feelings. Loving as I do the souls of every human 
 being, think how earnestly I must love his. I pray that God 
 will help me to be and to do everything that can ensure his peace 
 and happiness in this world and the next. 
 
 ' Dear Paule, now that I am beginning to foresee the possi- 
 bility of your not being with me at my wedding, everything 
 seems different. Up to this time I would never admit this possi- 
 bility, but now I dare not say one word to press you to leave 
 your husband, and to take such a long voyage alone. But then 
 how sorry we shall always be. ! I still hope that something 
 may bring it about that I shall have you here. Let us hope in 
 God ; if He sends us this trial we will offer it up to Him, you 
 for my happiness, and I for yours, and then later on I shall see 
 you again when I am married. Married ! How strange it sounds ! 
 Adrian's father and mother are more good to me than I can say, 
 and they love Alexandrine very much too. They have quite 
 
A SISTER'S STORt. 
 
 settled that she is not to leave me, and her room at Lumigny 
 is already fixed upon. They think her charming, as everybody 
 always does, and the more they see, the more they wish to see 
 of her. Think how happy all this makes me. Well, I do not 
 know what Grod will ordain for me hereafter, for happiness is not 
 the object of life, and I am at this moment overwhelmed with 
 blessings.' 
 
 ' Lumigny, same day. 
 
 * Madame de Mun is as kind as possible. It breaks my heart 
 to see her grief, for she does not, like Mons. de Mun, seek comfort 
 from others ; her only wish is to die, but even while expecting 
 death from one moment to another, she does everything that is 
 required of her, sees to every one's comfort, makes all the arrange- 
 ments for the household, and, in short, is admirable, for it is only 
 by exercising a wonderful self-control, that she can go through 
 what she does. I need not tell you how attached I am to them, 
 and how sweet I find the part of comforter which God seems to 
 have assigned me. In a word, I am happy, Paule, happy to a 
 degree that would even frighten me if I did not feel that it came 
 from Grod ; that it is His gift, and that if he chose to take it from 
 me, I should submit without a murmur. Indeed, surrounded as 
 I am by so many evidences of departed happiness, I could scarcely 
 be deluded into thinking any earthly joys lasting.' 
 
 My wish to be present at Eugenie's marriage equalled hers, but 
 the way from Lisbon to Boury was very long. My husband could 
 not possibly leave his post, and hard as it would have seemed to 
 him to have left France without me the year before, it was even 
 more painful to him to let me undertake such a journey as this 
 alone. At the same time, he could not bear to deprive me of 
 what he knew would be so great a pleasure, and after much hesi- 
 tation, it was settled that I should go. 
 
 It is not at all my wish to mix up personal recollections with 
 this narrative, but I am tempted to relate some of the incidents 
 of this journey, which have become almost a curiosity, now that 
 increased facility of communication has smoothed much of the 
 difficulty I then encountered. 
 
 I embarked at Lisbon, in Eebruary, 1838, for Southampton, 
 where I was to get into another steamer for Havre. There my 
 father was to send Fernand to meet me with a carriage. My 
 heart beat when the steamer left the Tagus, and for the first time 
 in my life I was travelling entirely alone. Thanks to the time of 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 331 
 
 year, and also because the packet bore a bad reputation for speed, 
 there were only three passengers on board : an old English cap- 
 tain, a gigantic Mr. L., also an Englishman, whom I had seen 
 in Paris, and a young French actress of nineteen, who had 
 played in the French theatre at Lisbon, and who shared the 
 ladies' cabin with me. The weather was dreadful, and during 
 the whole passage — which was seven days instead of four — I 
 could only venture once upon deck, where I stretched myself 
 upon a mattress, and even that once I was suddenly carried 
 down again by Mr. L., who, seeing a huge wave coming, swept 
 me up with my mattress in the twinkling of an eye, and laid me 
 down in the cabin, without uttering a word, while an enormous 
 sea deluged the deck just where I had been. I scarcely stirred 
 again after that, for I suffered very much from sea-sickness, and 
 still more from exhaustion, as ever since I left the shore it had 
 been impossible to swallow a mouthful. Once, when I was nearly 
 fainting, some one put into my mouth so powerful a stimulant 
 that my tongue and lips were burnt, and yet 1 distinctly remem- 
 ber how eagerly I swallowed the burning cordial. Far different 
 was the case with my companion, who, though very ill also, 
 never lost her appetite, and, as she did not know a word of 
 English, I had the ordering of her numerous meals. Besides 
 this, I rendered her various little services, necessitated by her 
 ignorance of the only language spoken on board, and her grati- 
 tude was deep and expansive. 
 
 Poor Mdlle. C. interested me, and I could not help pitying her. 
 I compared my happy and safe life with hers, and felt surprised 
 that we should have been so brought together for a few days, 
 where our lots were so differently cast, and could not help form- 
 ing plans for her benefit, such as one forms in youth — to which, 
 to tell the truth, though she was younger than myself, she did 
 not seem much disposed to accede. 
 
 When we reached Southampton, and went on deck, followed 
 by Mdlle. C, Mr. L. offered me his arm to leave the ship. As I 
 was hesitating whether to take it or not, I heard Mdlle. C. ex- 
 claim, ' What a pleasing face that young man in the boat has ! ' 
 and, glancing in the direction she pointed out, I joyfully recog- 
 nized Fernand, who, tired of waiting for me at Havre, had for- 
 tunately determined to cross the Channel, to meet the steamer 
 from Lisbon at Southampton. After a week of separation from 
 every one I knew, I shall never forget my joy at his unexpected 
 appearance. 
 
 As soon as we were on shore, I asked when the packet would 
 leave for Havre, as, though very tired, I wished to start imme- 
 diately, but I was told — to my despair — that, as the Thames was 
 
332 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 frozen, no boats had been able to leave London, and that all com- 
 munication was cut off between Havre and Southampton. The 
 boat that Fernand had crossed in was the last that had made 
 the passage, and it had sprung a leak, which prevented it from 
 going back. Fernand then proposed that we should start in a 
 little sailing packet, such as were used to cross from Southamp- 
 ton to Havre before steamboats existed. I am now astonished 
 that I ever agreed to this plan. The passage was to take twelve 
 hours, but the next morning we were to be at Havre, and ten 
 hours afterwards at Boury. 
 
 Tempted by this prospect, I took his advice, and as I expected 
 to be at home the next day, wrote to no one. After I had 
 dressed and taken some food, of which I stood in great need, I 
 walked with Fernand to the place where we were to embark. 
 Half way down the street Mdlle. C. joined us ; she was more 
 than ever in need of an interpreter, and having caught sight of 
 us, she joined us, hoping to cross in our company. She, too, 
 had changed her things, and was now smartly dressed, and I 
 own that my impression of her then was not quite what it had 
 been in our cabin out at sea; but, nevertheless I could well 
 understand that she should be as anxious as myself to reach 
 Havre, and we all embarked in the vessel, which was about to 
 start. There was only one cabin in this little cutter, and that 
 was so heaped with luggage that we could scarcely find room 
 near a little stove, around which every one was standing, for it 
 was icy cold. The wind was rising, nothing could look less 
 pleasant, and the night, after my week of fatigue, promised any- 
 thing but rest. In fact, it was spent in struggling against a 
 violent contrary wind, and at six in the morning we were only 
 just off the Isle of Wight, when the captain said he should put 
 in till the wind changed. This raised a general outcry, all the 
 passengers insisted on being taken back to Southampton, and 
 there, after fifteen hours of fatigue and sickness, we were put ou 
 shore. 
 
 We had lost so much precious time, that though thoroughly 
 exhausted, I had but one idea, which was to start again, for I 
 well knew how uneasy those expecting us would be, and I still 
 never wrote, thinking that we should see them before they could 
 get a letter. 
 
 After waiting an hour or two, therefore, and escaping for once 
 from Mdlle. C, we got into the mail and reached London at five 
 o'clock in the morning. We only waited there time enough to 
 have post-horses put to my own carriage, which I had left there 
 the year before, and then once more we set forth on our way. 
 It was so cold that Fernand, who had got on the box to leave 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 room for my maid inside, came, in a couple of hours' time, to im- 
 plore us to make room for him in the carriage, for he could not 
 stand the cold any longer. My poor man-servant, who was 
 obliged to remain outside, was nearly frozen when we got to 
 Dover. We were all completely worn out. 
 
 I can see now, as if it were yesterday, the look of the room lit 
 up with a bright fire, and the large bed in which I spent the 
 night, the first night of rest since I left Lisbon. I had never in 
 my life been so in need of sleep ; but I could not help thinking 
 that Eugenie's marriage was to have taken place on that very 
 day, and I had come so far on purpose to be at Boury at the 
 time. Had I really taken this long journey for nothing ? What 
 must they all be thinking at home of my non-arrival, and their 
 receiving no letters to account for it ? All this flitted through 
 my brain, but nothing could keep me awake. I slept soundly, 
 and never once woke till some one knocked at my door. It was 
 broad daylight, and thinking it was the chamber-maicl, I cried, 
 ' Come in ! ' The door opened, and in walked Mdlle. C. ! She 
 had just got out of the coach, and having recognized some of my 
 luggage, she came to express her joy at having found me out in 
 time to cross with us from Dover to Boulogne. We did make 
 the passage together — a long and dreary one as it proved — for 
 six hours elapsed before we reached Boulogne, where we finally 
 parted. She bade me good-bye with many expressions of grati- 
 tude, and got into the diligence for Paris. Once, and but once, 
 I saw Mdlle. C. again, which was one evening, several years after- 
 wards, at the Porte- Saint Martin, where she was acting some 
 grand melodramatic part. 
 
 We were obliged to wait a whole hour at Boulogne for a car- 
 riage, and at last started for Boury, which we were to reach the 
 next day at six o'clock in the evening. When we arrived at 
 Gisors, a town at an hour's distance from the chateau, we sent 
 on a man on horseback to announce our coming. He was to 
 precede us by about twenty minutes. 
 
 How sweet were those moments spent in the anticipation of so 
 great a joy ! The night was very dark, and the weather nearly 
 as bad as it had been on the day of my departure, but everything 
 seemed joyous and bright, and my heart throbbed with happiness 
 and impatience. 
 
 At last we were at Boury. The iron gates stood wide open, 
 we drove in, and I expected to see all the dear people on the 
 steps. But when we stopped, there was not a creature at the 
 door. I sprang out of the carriage, hastened into the vestibule, 
 and there saw Charles alone. A dreadful fear came over me, 
 but he understood my look and said, ' No, no ! there is nothing 
 
334 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 the matter ; come in, come ! ' and dragging me to the dining- 
 room, he suddenly opened the door. Coming out of the dark 
 night, I was dazzled by a multitude of lights, and saw confusedly 
 my father, mother, and sisters, who, instead of hastening towards 
 me, seemed all stopped by some incomprehensible, obstacle, and 
 I even saw my father make a sign with his hand to Charles to 
 take me away again. Charles did, in fact, draw me back, and 
 led me, half-stupefied, into my mother's room, where I sat down 
 and burst into tears. But before he had time to explain, father, 
 mother, and sisters rushed into the room, followed by a number 
 of friends, and I was in their arms, and full of happiness. 
 
 In the midst of such joyful confusion it was a long time before 
 I could take in what had happened, but at last I learned that it 
 was on account of Mme. de Mun that I had been received in this 
 strange manner, and to spare her the sight of the family joy at 
 the return of a daughter of the same age as the child she had 
 lost. It had already been a great effort to her, in the gloom of 
 her unhealed grief, to be present at her son's marriage, and to 
 endure the gaiety of a large family party. Every care had been 
 taken to avoid useless emotions, and she had herself expressed a 
 wish to be spared witnessing my arrival. All possible pre- 
 cautions had been taken for the day when I was expected, but 
 the long delay and great uneasiness consequently felt, had caused 
 other things to be overlooked. 
 
 Our courier had ridden up just as they had all sat down to 
 dinner, when, great as was the joy, the anxiety was so to manage 
 as to get Mme. de Mun back to her room before I should reach 
 the chateau. This could not be achieved, and before dinner was 
 over the noise of the carriage- wheels was heard, and Mme. de Mun 
 looked ready to faint. What with their fear, joy, anxiety, and 
 flurry, all they could do was to prevent me from coming into the 
 room, and hence that moment of strange apprehension which was 
 well repaid by those which followed, when joy could show itself 
 without restraint. All the bed-rooms in the chateau were full, 
 and I had part of Alexandrine's, which opened into Eugenie's. 
 Our conversations were prolonged far into the night, and peacefal 
 was the sleep, and joyful the waking which followed. 
 
 The next day was the eve of the wedding, and the last of 
 Eugenie's girlish life, upon which so many graces and blessings 
 had been showered. It sped quickly by, and not without mingled 
 feelings, for our joy in looking forward to this wedding had in it 
 a shade of sadness, as it revived recollections which it was im- 
 possible for Alexandrine or for us, both on her account and our 
 own, to lose sight of. Eugenie also felt deeply that her departure 
 was about to take from that dear sister's deprived life its greatest 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 enjoyment, and in spite of all her unselfishness, Alexandrine could 
 not but feel it too. And so that day came to an end, and on the 
 morrow, at dawn, I went into Eugenie's room, where a trifling 
 matter gave me a painful feeling, wholly superstitious, but which 
 I have never since forgotten. The furniture of the room was 
 blue, but her writing-table was covered, as was the fashion at that 
 time, with a thick black velvet, trimmed with gold fringe. On 
 this oblong table, which stood in the middle of the room, I found 
 the whole of Eugenie's wedding toilet laid out, and the appearance 
 of the wreath and veil and white gown upon the black velvet had 
 a melancholy effect, and though the impression lasted but for an 
 instant, it was so strong that I seized the whole array and threw 
 it upon the blue coverlet of the bed. Eugenie saw me do this, 
 and understood the reason, but only smiled, and we thought of 
 it no more. Indeed a far sadder incident darkened this wedding- 
 day with gloom. 
 
 Eugenie dressed with great composure. Put on her white gown 
 covered with lace, her veil, her wreath of white roses and orange- 
 flowers, with the same diamond cross which Alexandrine had 
 worn on her wedding-day, and which she had given to Eugenie 
 the evening before. Then we went down with her to the drawing- 
 room, where Adrian and his father and mother were expecting 
 lis. The weather was beautiful, but a good deal of snow had 
 fallen, and it was very cold. Mme. de Mun on this great occasion 
 had left oS" her deep mourning ; she wore a large black velvet 
 mantle over a grey dress, and kept her hands in a muff*. She 
 was very anxious for the ceremony to be over, and after having 
 kissed Eugenie very affectionately, she wished to proceed instantly 
 to the church, and went out of the room with Adrian by her 
 side. My father followed with Eugenie and my mother, and all 
 of us after them. 
 
 On leaving the drawing-room the way was through the library, 
 and on going into it Mme. de Mun caught her gown in the door. 
 She slipped, and her muff* prevented her from catching Adrian's 
 arm, she fell heavily, and at full length, on the stone floor of the 
 library. The confusion that ensued may be imagined. Mme. de 
 Mun was nearly stunned ; she had hurt her head, her face was 
 covered with blood, and Eugenie's wedding-gown — she had rushed 
 to save the fall — was stained in several places with the red drops. 
 
 There was a moment of terrible anxiety. Mme. de Mun was 
 carried to her room, but when once in bed she came completely 
 to herself, insisted on the wedding not being put off", and that the 
 ceremony should proceed without her ; and this was agreed to as 
 soon as the doctor had come and assured us that there was not 
 the least danger. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 Eugenie and her Imsband spent some days at Bonry, and when 
 Mme. de Mnn was well enough to move, they went with her and 
 Mons. de Mun to Lumigny, where we were to join them later on. 
 I remained alone with Alexandrine, and could then judge of the 
 BufiPering she had gone through. The effect of these festive days, 
 followed by a separation which no amount of self-forgetfulness 
 could quite soften, was greater than she had allowed it to appear, 
 and I witnessed in her at that time real paroxysms of despair, 
 and yearning after her vanished happiness, which did not seem 
 in accordance with the tone of her own letters, or with what 
 others had written to me about her while we were apart. But 
 she soon recovered herself, and then I found her again such as 
 she had been a year and a half before, calm, peaceful, active, but 
 always dwelling on the past, and divided between her energetic 
 desire of accepting God's will without murmuring, and the bitter 
 grief of her loss, so hard to that ardent and loving nature, which 
 scarcely knew as yet how to give herself solely to the only love 
 worthy to satisfy her heart. The day of that blessed and thorough 
 surrender came at last, but its time was not yet. More sorrow, 
 other partings, and other trials had first to be gone through. 
 
 The two following letters, written by Alexandrine a few days 
 after the wedding, show few traces of the painful feelings that 
 reigned within. 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUGENIE. 
 
 • Boury, March 5tli, 1838. 
 * Here I am writing to you again ! Your sorrow about me 
 gives me pain. You must not grieve about me — you know I am 
 used to suffer — that God has compelled me to it — and that all 
 sorrows seem light compared with that which has changed the 
 face of the earth to me. It is a rest to know that such dear 
 interests divert your mind from me, and I find that my days 
 pass quickly, and that I like solitude far better than I used to do.' 
 
 ' Saturday, March lOth. 
   ' This little parting reminds me of the time when you were in 
 England, but it will be a shorter one. And then, which is 
 pleasant to think of, you are happier now than you were then. 
 The idea that you are happy, really happy, would enable me to 
 bear an unknown length of parting. You have now the best 
 friend that any one can have on earth. 
 
 ' One thing more. Would it be indiscreet to hint that I 
 should like one room better than another at Lumigny ? In any 
 case I may say it to you. I should like best — always supposing 
 it would be no trouble, and that it would not disturb any one 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 337 
 
 else — to have that little room that you were in the last time, and 
 that Pauline should take the blue room I had. She will perhaps 
 like the exchange, because she will have two rooms instead of 
 one ; but I would rather have the little yellow room because it is 
 sunny, because I like the view, because I feel sure that when the 
 window is open I can hear your piano and your dear voice in the 
 turret, and also because it seems more by itself than the others. 
 What a string of reasons ! And now if you have the least 
 feeling that it would seem strange, say nothing about it, and 
 leave everything as Mme. de Mun has arranged it. 
 
 ' Thank God you are happy ! Enjoy it, and do not think it is 
 wrong because others cannot be happy. When I was happy 
 myself, I know that I had no such idea.' (She gave Eugenie 
 several commissions, and then added) ' I give you as much 
 trouble as usual. I hope and believe that you will forgive me 
 for this, and all the other small and great clouds — storms they 
 have sometimes been — with which I have saddened your life. I 
 fancy you must be at Paris in such a perfect whirl of civility, 
 business, and commissions, as can leave little time to read a 
 letter. So I will bring mine to a close, especially as I like better 
 to talk than to write, and I hope to have that pleasure in ten 
 days' time. 
 
 ' Yesterday I went into your room.* All trace of you had 
 vanished, everything had been put back into its old place, it 
 had become what it was before. There is another of life's dreams 
 
 over 
 
 I spent the whole of March and part of April at Lumigny, 
 after which I returned with my father and mother and Alexan- 
 drine to Boury, and there Alexandrine wrote the following letter 
 to Eugenie the day before I went away : — 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUGENIE. 
 
 ' Boury, April 21st. 
 ' Our dear Boury ! It gave me an indescribable pang to come 
 back here for the first time without you, but nevertheless, I 
 cannot tell you how soothing this place is to me, how full of 
 swc^et and pleasant memories, in spite of all my sadness. Pauline 
 w411 write to you. Your mother hoped that before she left, you 
 might have been able to spend a few days here with her. Let 
 us know how Adrian's father and mother got through the sad 
 anniversary. 1 wish their hearts were full of Heavenly hope, 
 
 * The room Eugenie had occupied after her marriage. 
 
 Z 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 Tell them how much I feel for them. I must leave off to write 
 to Mamma. May God be with you every moment of your life.* 
 
 I added the concluding lines : — 
 
 * My dear little Sister, — Farewells are indeed sad things, and 
 blissful will be that life where they will no longer be known. 
 After so joyful a meeting, I expected to part with you without 
 pain, leaving you as I do so beloved, calm, and happy ; but it is 
 not so, and I feel just the same keen and sorrowful regret for 
 that happy time when we were never divided. Now, indeed, we 
 possess a new kind of happiness ; but that pure and uninter- 
 rupted enjoyment of each other's society we shall never know 
 again. May God bless you and Adrian with every blessing of 
 Heaven and earth, for time and for Eternity. Farewell. Love 
 me ever as you have always done.' 
 
 ' Qtd enim haec dictmt, significant se 
 Patriam inquirere.' — ^Ad Hebilsios. 
 
 I left Boury at the end of April for England, where I was to 
 embark on the 3rd of May for Portugal. I am not going to 
 recount the incidents of my journey at length, but there are some 
 particulars relating to my father which I cannot help mentioning. 
 Notwithstanding the favourable time of year, and the fact of my 
 having twice safely accomplished the voyage, he did not feel my 
 departure less acutely than he had done before. I was going 
 quite alone, my maid having preceded me that she might spend 
 two or three weeks with her friends in England before starting 
 with me for Lisbon. This decided my father to go with me at 
 least as far as Boulogne, where I was to take the steamer direct 
 to London. 
 
 We left Boury on the 28th of April, and reached Boulogne tlie 
 next evening. The steamer was to start at midnight, and it was 
 at that hour, and in a pouring rain, that I kissed my poor father 
 on the quay, and went on board the crowded vessel, weeping 
 very bitterly. I had an excellent travelling servant named 
 Phillips, but he could not look after me in the ladies' cabin, and 
 when I went down alone, it was with difficulty that I could find 
 a place among the crowd of women and children. I had beem 
 sitting there very sorrowfully for an hour, feeling dreadfully soli- 
 tary in the midst of that crowd, when suddenly I heard pierc- 
 ing cries, followed by a general flight of passengers. Some 
 serious accident, happily found out before we put to sea, had 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 339 
 
 happened to the engine, the boat was not able to start, and the 
 rush of passengers leaving her led to a confusion which was likely 
 to produce dangerous results. I looked for Phillips, who was 
 making every effort to reach me through the frightened crowd, 
 and at last he managed to get me out of the ship. Notwith- 
 standing my fright, I felt great joy at the thoughts of seeing my 
 father again. Leaving Phillips to look after the baggage, I went 
 back to the hotel and into my father's room, but was astonished 
 not to find him there. The fire and candles were nearly out, and 
 it was evident that he had not come in since we had left the 
 hotel together two hours before. Where could he be ? I never 
 remember to have felt so intensely anxious, for the only idea 
 that occurred to me was that he had met with some accident, 
 which the darkness of the night and the bad weather did not 
 make at all improbable. I could not go out into the streets alone 
 at two o'clock in the morning, so I called a waiter at the hotel, 
 and was just going to start with him, when I heard my father's 
 voice, and felt myself in his arms. Then I learnt where he had 
 spent the last two hours. After he had seen me disappear among 
 the passengers, he had not courage to go back to his solitary 
 room, and, in spite of the darkness and the rain, had gone to the 
 end of the pier to catch one more glimpse of the vessel which 
 carried away what he called ' her old father's joy.' Finding that 
 the steamer did not appear, he went back to learn the cause of 
 the delay, and had heard among the crowd what had taken place. 
 His joy at finding and embracing me again was very great, but 
 the fright had so taken possession of him, that he would neither 
 let me go alone, nor allow me to undertake the long and unplea- 
 sant passage from Boulogne to London. The next morning he 
 crossed the Channel with me as far as Dover, and there I parted 
 from him, and in my turn sadly watched the steamboat which 
 carried him away. Alas ! what repeated farewells fell to our lot 
 before the time came for the last parting of all ! and in this one 
 at Dover there was to me an additional pang. 
 
 Not many years had elapsed since my father had held an import- 
 ant position, and as he had a number of friends and acquaintances 
 in London, and as he would have been warmly welcomed there, I 
 begged him to accompany me so far, and he was himself tempted 
 to remain with me some days longer, and even to take another 
 glimpse of the political and diplomatic world in which he had 
 played a still-remembered part. But he resisted the temptation, 
 saying, with his usual firmness and simplicity, that he could not 
 allow himself useless expense ; that it was necessary to see me 
 safely to England, but not necessary to go farther, and the sacri- 
 fice therefore must be made. In making it, my father supposed 
 
 z 2 
 
340 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 that he was doing a very simple thing, and I note it only because 
 these words evince his utter freedom from bitterness, a state of 
 mind not always to be found in those who have been called upon 
 to make sacrifices for their opinions. 
 
 I left England a few days afterwards, and reached Lisbon in 
 safety on the 10th of May, where I remained for more than a 
 year, without seeing any of my family. I return now to their 
 letters : — 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUGENIE. 
 
 * Boury, May 4tli, 1838. 
 ' Thank you for your dear letter. It was really too kind. How 
 can you think of reproaching yourself for your own happiness ? 
 I do entreat of you never to grieve me in that way again, though 
 I own that I liked to read your affectionate expressions. No, I 
 can never forget that you wished to devote your life to me, and 
 may God reward you for it ! Fernand is very well, and has been 
 so good to poor Saint Amand,* who is dying, but iiappily in the 
 best state of mind. Yesterday afternoon I went there with 
 Fernand, and made him very happy by telling him that you had 
 found his daughter a place. It is a gTeat consolation to give joy 
 to a dying person ; his eyes brightened up, and he smiled when 
 he recognized me. Then I showed him Albert's miniature, which 
 he could still see clearly, for he said, " Monsieur Fernand is there, 
 too, beside him.f Ah ! I should know them both, no matter in 
 what manner you showed them to me ! " Then, speaking of us all, 
 he said, " Who would not love you ? " I thanked him again for 
 having saved Albert's life. It is now two years since he came to 
 see Albert on his death-bed, who gently lifted up his finger, and 
 begged him to give up the habit of drinking, which has hastened 
 his death, but I hope he has made up for that now. This morn- 
 ing I went to him again, with your father and mother, and Fer- 
 nand, but we could not understand what he said. The Cure of 
 Nauples, at Fernand' s request, remained with him. He was 
 delirious, but kissed the Crucifix every time it was given to him. 
 Thank God ! your father has come back safe, after taking our 
 Paule to Dover, where he was better satisfied to part with her. 
 Farewell ! ' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUGENIE. 
 
 • May 12tli. 
 
 ' What a charming letter I have had from you this morning ! 
 It touches me much, and ends with a delightful little word : — 
 
 * An old servant who had saved Albert once in Russia from being drowned, 
 f Both the brothers were drawn in the miniature. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 341 
 
 " Tell me — if you wish to comfort me for being so happy — that 
 I am still good for something, still a little what I used to be to 
 you." Can you doubt that you are still, and always will be, im- 
 mensely dear to me ? We have talked so much of what relates to 
 the soul, that it ought to make us, I think, better endure to be 
 separated, for though divided, we can still be together. Ah ! my 
 dear sister, my sister for Eternity, thanks for loving me ; I do need 
 it so much. 
 
 ' You must have been surprised at my silence, but since then 
 you have received my wretched little note, though it is nothing 
 to the point, for you know you are always first in my thoughts 
 and in my heart. The Abbe Grerbet came here the day before 
 yesterday, and you know how much good he always does me. 
 We talk over all kinds of things, and say so much about you, 
 that we have hardly time to discuss metaphysics ; still, they are 
 always a little mixed up with those other subjects. Meanwhile, 
 we are going away on Tuesday, and I, perhaps, on a long journey. 
 I have not even thought of packing up, and spend my time in 
 working at my chasuble, and listening to the Abbe. I read aloud 
 the conversation about music which you sent me. Adrian seems 
 to have spoken well, but the good people he was arguing with 
 could never have read Mme. de Stael's L'Allemagne, in which she 
 notices that even the most austere Saints looked forward to 
 enjoying music in Heaven; and then, does not King David 
 always mention singing and instruments of music ? Are not 
 beauty and the gift of speech just as appreciable by the senses as 
 music, and yet how they affect the soul ? According to their 
 argument, it would appear as if these excellent persons had never 
 been touched or excited by anything not entirely spiritual, which 
 I am inclined to think is not exactly the case.' 
 
 The Abbe Grerbet added these words to the foregoing 
 letter : — 
 
 * My dear Child, — I have begged leave to fill up the blank 
 space. I wish to ask you to express my thanks to all at Lu- 
 migny, for the kindness I have received from them ; and also to 
 say how deeply I sympathize with both their sorrow and their 
 happiness. I must positively be in Paris, at the Church of the 
 Assumption, on Tuesday morning, and, according to the present 
 arrangements, we are all to start on Monday at midnight, which 
 will be much pleasanter for me than travelling in a wretched 
 diligence. I shall write from Paris. May God bless you, and 
 make you a blessing to others.' 
 
842 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 While Alexandrine was waiting at Paris for letters from her 
 mother, Eugenie wrote to me as follows : — 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Lumigny, May 8th, 1838. 
 * I shall write to yon to Lisbon, for I hope you are at least 
 very near it now. My poor, dear sister, how did you get through 
 the long voyage ? 1 hope you reached home without any further 
 adventures. Thank you — thank you again and again — dear 
 Augustus, for the sacrifice you made in parting with Pauline for 
 my sake. Lumigny is so pretty now ! The fine trees with their 
 fresh green, the flowers springing up, and a multitude of birds 
 singing, either by day or by night ; — the enjoyment of all this in 
 peace and happiness, the thought that this earth is most beautiful 
 — without losing sight of Heaven, and with no fear of death — is 
 a greater amount of happiness than I had ever looked forward 
 to. However, God has given it, and God may take it away; and 
 as I bless Him now, so should I bless Him then, and for ever. 
 Good-bye — tell me if there is anything you wish to know, and 
 which I have not spoken of, for I wish my letters to be as satis- 
 factory as possible. Good-bye, my best beloved sister; God's 
 peace be with you ! * 
 
 * Alexandrine does not yet know what she is going to do, and I 
 think it very probable that she will not move this year. I own 
 I shall be anxious on several accounts, if she leaves us to take so 
 long and fatiguing a journey. She does not look the sort of 
 person who ought to be travelling all over Europe by herself, 
 and Constance's* appearance does not help in the matter. But 
 God will order everything as is best for one so entirely His own. 
 Do you know that Mons. de Talleyrand is, to all appearance, on 
 his death-bed, and that he is perhaps about to give more joy in 
 Heaven than a whole army of just men ? ! may he indeed 
 shed those blessed tears of repentance, — tears which are a still 
 more precious and grateful offering to God than the prayers of 
 an unstained heart ! 
 
 ' Dear Pauline, because of all I said formerly to you and Alex, 
 I feel I ought to tell you now, again and again, that I am happy. 
 My road to Heaven is indeed a different one now from what it 
 once was, but the peace I feel makes me hope that it leads 
 equally to God. May He hearken to the cry of my heart, for I 
 never lose sight of Him, and keep me unspotted from the world. 
 
 * Alexandrine's maid. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 343 
 
 Now I must leave off. Mj father and my mother-in-law's affec- 
 tion for you delights me. Ah ! may love, and blessings, and hap- 
 piness be for ever your portion ! This is a bold wish to frame, 
 and how could it ever be realized but in the one way ; which is, 
 to love life without being afraid of death, and to enjoy what Grod 
 gives on earth, even while longing for Heaven.' 
 
 ' Lumigny, May llth, 1838. 
 
 * We have received your Falmouth letters, thank God ! As all 
 was well so far, I trust the voyage is ended, and that you are 
 once more with your husband. 
 
 ' In my last letter I spoke of Mons. de Talleyrand's illness, 
 who persevered in his good dispositions to the end. Mons. 
 Dupanloup* was constantly with him. His great-niece, who had 
 just made her first Communion, persuaded him to see a Priest, 
 and thus brought about his Christian end, for which God be 
 praised! My mother-in-law is reading part of Alexandrine's 
 story, and is much touched by it. She is very much surprised 
 at some of the things in the Journal, and in Albert's letters. 
 She says, " Why, really, this makes one believe in novels ; I had 
 no idea that such feelings existed ! " 
 
 * I wish I had any news to tell you, but there cannot be a more 
 monotonous life than mine. How wonderful and strange things 
 are, and nothing more so than the force of habit ! Impressions 
 change so quickly, that the mind easily gets accustomed to what 
 beforehand it could not even understand, and we are not the least 
 astonished at things which would have once seemed to us impos- 
 sible. I am as peaceful, which means, as happy as possible. I 
 lead a most pleasant life ; but how can I hope it will last ? I 
 ask of God that happiness may not weaken my soul, and make it 
 unfit to meet the sorrows and troubles of this sad world.* 
 
 THE ABB^ GERBET TO ALEXANDRINE. 
 
 •Juilly, May 4th, 1838. 
 *My dear Child, — To-day is the Feast of S. Monica, and I 
 said Mass for you, for though you are often in my thoughts, I 
 have more especially remembered you to-day. I think I can 
 venture to say that if you could look into my mind, you would 
 see that out of your own family you have not a more sincere 
 friend than myself, and that no one in the world sympathizes 
 more truly in your troubles — all your troubles without exception, 
 from your deep trial to your least vexation. I do not think that 
 even your mother is more anxious for your welfare than I am, 
 
 * Now Bishop of Orleans. 
 
344 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 and I would go through any pain to spare you suffering. Believe 
 all this, my dear child, and believe also that this friendship is 
 useful to me, not only because friendship is always a consoling 
 thing in this sorrowful life, and that our devotion to others is 
 good for ourselves, but because there is something in the tone of 
 your mind, notwithstanding all the bad things you say of your- 
 self, which always seemed to raise mine higher. It is not S. 
 Monica who has suggested these thoughts to me, for I have long 
 had them, but she has been the occasion of my writing them to 
 you, and I thank her for it. On your account I have a special 
 devotion to this holy widow, and I wish to make friends with 
 her, that I may transfer to you all that I may obtain through her 
 intercession. 
 
 * May S. Monica, then, who suffered so much, be with you in 
 your sufferings. Her greatest Cross seems to have been the 
 spiritual death of her son, for whom she prayed, and he was given 
 back to her, according to the words of the holy Bishop : " Jf is 
 irtvpossihle that the child of such tears should he cast away." Your 
 great trouble, my dear child, is the earthly death of your husband. 
 He will be given back to you, and I, who am not a Saint, but 
 only a poor Priest, declare to you that a union hallowed by so 
 many pious tears, cannot be dissolved. Such tears would make 
 even a dead branch flourish again. 
 
 * Yours have not, like S. Monica's, to accomplish so arduous a 
 task ; they have only to keep alive the sap which will gradually 
 transform your soul. May God bless you, my dear child, and 
 shed upon you the Divine balm contained in grief. May He bless 
 you always, for all the good you do, and for the constancy with 
 which your thoughts ^re fixed on the grave and on Heaven. May 
 He bless you for your faithful mourning garb ; it will one day 
 shine with a whiteness which has no parallel on earth. May He 
 bless your holy seclusion ; may He reward your watchfulness in 
 guarding against every danger of weakening your undying love ; 
 may He bless your faith, your hope, your thirst for all that raises 
 the soul, your worship of the truth. I have no time to read 
 over this, and must put off all the news about Lumigny, till we 
 meet.' 
 
 ALEXANDKINE TO EUGENIE. 
 
 ' Paris, May 20th. 
 
 * My dear Angel, — I must say two words of thanks for your 
 dear, dear letter, which I found yesterday, after the Month of 
 Mary, at the Church of the Assumption. I was to have dined 
 with Mons. Lacordaire to-day, at Montal's, but there was some 
 mistake, and he engaged himself elsewhere. As we stay till 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 845 
 
 Friday, I shall meet him some other time, please God ! I am so 
 grateful, not to you, for that is a matter of course, but your 
 mother-in-law, for wishing so much to keep rae at Lumigny. 
 Since yesterday I have had three letters from poor dear Mamma, 
 but nothing is decided yet. She says, that in the course of a 
 week she will tell me decidedly whether she leaves Korsen for 
 Germany, or not.' 
 
 • Paris, May 23rd. 
 
 ' I had your little note this morning, and will give your message 
 to the Abbe Gerbet, who is coming to me at three o'clock vdth 
 Mons. Lacordaire, whom I shall see at last. He could not dine 
 with me at Montal's, but to make up for this disappointment, I 
 met Count Confalonieri, Silvio Pellico's friend, who was, like him, 
 shut up in Spielburg for fourteen years, chained, and lying on 
 straw. What interesting accounts he gives, and what wonderful 
 resignation he had ! He is very good, straightforward, and un- 
 pretending, and tells you so simply that his imprisonment turned 
 out a great blessing to his soul ; that he always had faith, but 
 that formerly he was worldly, &c. He had been several years in 
 prison, when a messenger came one day, and told him abruptly that 
 the Emperor had sent to let him know that Ms wife was dead, 
 without a word more, and he quite worshipped his wife. I will 
 tell you another time all she suffered. She died after he had been 
 some years in that terrible captivity, " worn out, but not con- 
 quered by suffering," as Manzoni says in her epitaph ; and he also 
 adds : " She died, trusting in God, the Comforter of the Sorrow- 
 ful, and hoping to understand in Heaven the mysteries of mercy, 
 veiled on earth by what we call the severity of God's decrees." 
 
 ' Here are two people who have gone through all these mysteries 
 of sorrow, and never said that God was cruel. At Mental's, this 
 good, admirable man wished to speak to me. He told me that 
 he had read compassion so clearly in my eyes, that he saw I, too, 
 had gone through much suffering ; and having questioned the Abbe 
 Gerbet, had asked if he might venture to allude to my loss. Then 
 he came up to me, and talked, in a way which did me more good 
 than anything I had heard for a long time, of his hope of happi- 
 ness to come, of the benefit of sorrow to the soul, and the sympathy 
 between those who suffer. He asked leave to shake hands with 
 me, and we both said we would try to meet often again, if Provi- 
 dence ever brought us within reach of each other. Ah ! I say of 
 him, as Manzoni says of his wife, that man has a noble, tender, 
 and strong soul. He gets a little agitated when he speaks of his 
 sufferings, and his eyes fill with tears, but not a harsh word 
 escapes him about the Emperor of Austria; and yet he was 
 
84d A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 never engaged in any conspiracy, and was treated in that way 
 only for his opinions, which, he says, are shared by all the Milanese. 
 When he left his prison, the first book Manzoni sent him was 
 the Abbe Grerbet's work on the Holy Eucharist ; and he speaks 
 of the Abbe with a respect and esteem which delighted me. He 
 is now between fifty and sixty years old, and has a very noble 
 face. This has been an interesting and pleasant meeting to me.' * 
 
 Afler this short stay at Paris, Alexandrine went to Lumigny 
 for a few days, previous to a general dispersion which was about 
 to take place. She was to meet her mother at Ischl, and if the 
 Princess Lapoukhyn did not spend the winter in Italy or 
 Germany, she meant to go back with her to Korsen. This plan 
 was not carried into efiect, but the uncertainty as to the time 
 of her return threw a gloom over Alexandrine's departure. 
 Before going so far away, she wished to receive the Sacrament of 
 Confirmation, and went from Lumigny to Meaux for that pur- 
 pose. Eugenie was with her, and from there wrote me the fol- 
 lowing letter : — 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' MeaiK, June 2nd, 1838. 
 ' You see we are at Meaux, and will guess that it is for Alex- 
 andrine's Confirmation. I came here yesterday, leaving my father 
 at Lumigny till Monday, when we shall all meet at Coulommiers, 
 and then divide. My father, Alexandrine, and Femand are going 
 to Germany, t and I back to Lumigny. We are here in the 
 Bishop's Palace, and magnificently entertained. I am lodged in 
 Bossuet's own room, and every attention and kindness are shown 
 us. The Bishop (Monseigneur Galard) comes back to-night 
 from Paris, and we think he will confirm Alex to-morrow. The 
 Cathedral is very fine, in a pure and grand style. We shall have 
 a delightful Whit- Sunday, for they say the functions are wonder- 
 fully well done. My pretty little Pauline, I love you with my 
 whole heart. It seems to me now, that I love so much all those 
 I love. The tenderness with which I am loved myself seems to 
 influence my whole being. 
 
 * It will be adding another incident to the romance of real life which these 
 volumes contain, to mention that abont this time Count Confalonieri met a 
 young' Danish lady in Paris, who, when a child, had taken a deep and singular 
 interest in the fate of the prisoners of Spielburg, and especially in Confalonieri' s 
 character, simply on account of what she had read and heard of their sufferings. 
 Notwithstanding the great difference in their age, a strong attachment sprang 
 np between the Count and Mdlle. Ferral, who were afterwards married ; and 
 during the few years the Count survived, they were both as happy as possible. — 
 
 TKANSIiATOE'S NOTE. 
 
 t Mons. de la Ferronnays and Femand went to Prague, where the family of 
 Charles X. then were. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 347 
 
 ' The Bishop is come back, and we have been dining with him 
 and with Mme. Casimir Perier. Alex will certainly be confirmed 
 to-morrow. The Bishop is very good, and one feels so at home 
 with those who love God. Now we are going to bed, and 
 through the wide-open window of our bed- room we can hear them 
 singing and practising for to-morrow on the organ. The music 
 sounds delightful.' 
 
 Alexandrine finished this letter the next morning. 
 
 ' Eugenie wishes me to write to you, and she is right ; for, my 
 aear sister, you ought to have been present at my Confirmation. 
 It is done. I am so grateful, and happier than I had ventured to 
 hope. It took place in the JBishop's pretty little private chapel, 
 and then the Abbe Gerbet said Mass for us, and we went to Com- 
 munion. Afterwards we had a grand High Mass in the Ca- 
 thedral, where I felt my heart full of gratitude for the gifts of the 
 Holy Ghost, and the blessings of our faith. The magnificent 
 Cathedral, the music, and the beauty of our dear religion filled me 
 with delight, and the tears I shed, even those for Albert, w^ere 
 very sweet. It is two years to-day since he looked up to the 
 sky and said : " Everytlmig is beautiful in Heaven ; I shall no 
 longer suffer from my chest, but the Angels Tnust carry me wp, for I 
 have no strength to go alone." To-morrow it will be two years 
 since I received my first Communion at his bed-side. To- 
 morrow, therefore, I shall go to Communion again, and hope to 
 come away strengthened.' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 < Lumigny, June Sth, 1838. 
 
 * My dear Sister, — ^My father and Femand left us on Wednes- 
 day, and some delay about the carriage gave them time to receive 
 the first news of you from Lisbon, which was a great comfort to 
 my father. I can breathe freely now I know you are safe with 
 your husband. You must never leave him again, and, above all, 
 never for me, not even to come and say good-bye to me when I 
 am dying. You would be certain, with God's help, to see me 
 again in Heaven, and you would not be certain of seeing your 
 husband again on earth, if you left him. Our dear travellers, then, 
 are all gone, and now I enjoy the pleasure of having my mother 
 and dear little sister here Only think how dismal it would have 
 been for them at Boury alone ! Here we talk of the travellers, 
 look forward to their letters, and pray for them in the meantime. 
 I must leave ofi" to-day, as it is late, but I will go on with my 
 letter this evening, to keep up the good habit of writing a little 
 
348 A SISTER'S 8T0RT. 
 
 every day, for this is the only way of telling all the Httle things 
 which are interesting to those who love one another as we do. 
 Darling, if our union is nearly perfect on earth, what will it be in 
 Heaven?' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUGENIE. 
 
 • Strasburg, June 9tli, 1838. 
 
 * My dearest Love, — Here I am, all alone. There is always 
 some new thing happening in this sad life. Since I came away, 
 I have many times felt that nothing could give me any pleasure. 
 This life has no charms for me but when it speaks to me of 
 another world, and I do not know how to ajjeak to myself of that 
 better world. I have often thought what this journey would be 
 to me, if, instead of Constance, I had with me that sweet friend 
 whom God gave me for my companion, and whom He so quickly 
 took away again. And as I am no longer to know the intense 
 enjoyment which made me love this world better than Heaven, 
 I should like to have you all with me, to talk to me about Albert 
 and Heaven. But do not think that I am just now particularly 
 sad. I am neither sad nor glad. I feel dull and stupid ; in that 
 wretched, indifferent state which Albert used always to dread so 
 much. Even in the glorious Cathedral, at Mass to-day, I could 
 not shake off this apathy, except during the Elevation, when, for 
 a moment — too short a one, alas ! — I had a feeling of joy. What 
 a church it is ! Such architecture, such stained glass ! I am 
 sorry to say I did not find Theodore* here. He left Strasburg 
 yesterday after waiting for me some days. I am so sorry not 
 to have seen him, for being a convert like myself, I should have 
 liked to have talked over many things with him. It made me 
 sad to part with your father and Fernand at Nancy. When and 
 where shall I see them again ?' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUGENIE. 
 
 ' Stuttgard, June 10th, 1838. 
 
 * As you are no doubt taking a great interest in my fate, I 
 conclude you will be glad to have a word from me every day, 
 especially as I get further on. Here, then, I am ; I have dined. 
 It is nearly six o'clock, and I am going to start again, for I shall 
 travel day and night, and by the day after to-morrow I hope to 
 see Mamma. Poor Mamma ! It makes my heart beat to think 
 of it! I should like to have written more, but Mens, de Fon- 
 
 * The Vicomte de Bussieres, who had lately been received into the Church, 
 and has since devoted his pen, time, means, and whole energy, to the service of 
 religion. 
 
A SISTER'S ST0R7. 
 
 tenay* has been here, and sat with me some time. He loves you 
 all very much, and was very kind to me. Tell the Abbe about 
 me. He is one of the Priests who, as M. de Lacordaire says, 
 have a mother's heart. 
 
 ' Grive your dear mother my very best love, and say that I 
 am waiting to write to her till I can do so in a less hurried 
 manner. What news have you of your father ? Pray for us 
 all. The horses are come. ! France, France ! It is always 
 with sorrow I leave it, and I should like never to lose sight of 
 those who yet remain to me there.' 
 
 • Ischl, June 13th. 
 
 ' Arrived — arrived at last, safe and sound ! I saw my mother 
 at nine o'clock this morning, after a journey of five days and five 
 nights. Catiche descried me from a distance, and rushed down 
 with Mamma, who had a nervous attack in the street. Poor, 
 poor Mamma ! Her emotion was so violent, and I was so 
 frightened ! Pray for me, my darling sister, and let your mother 
 and everybody know of my arrival. Tell the good Abbe that I 
 have begun a long letter to him, which I shall send on Sunday. 
 The French post goes only twice a week, and I am afraid of 
 missing this one. Grod bless you, my beloved sister.' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Lumigny, June 22nd, 1838. 
 
 * Alex has written a volume to the Abbe Gerbet, which I read 
 on its way to him. She has very little time, and what she writes 
 she likes me to see, and then to pass it on to others. This is 
 what I gathered from her letter, and what you will like to hear. 
 At Pfortsheim she went to confession to a good Priest in a 
 chapel where Mass was being said for convicts condemned to 
 hard labour, and Alex found herself alone there in the midst of 
 this respectable assembly. At Ischl, on Corpus Christi, having 
 been misinformed as to the hours, she came into the church just 
 as the procession was coming out. She pounced upon the Canon, 
 who was already vested, drew him into the Sacristy, gave him in 
 a few words the history of her conversion, and her first Com- 
 munion with her dying husband, of which that day was the 
 anniversary, and of her great desire, on this account, not to be 
 deprived of the happiness of Communion. The kind Canon, 
 being hun^ied by the approaching procession, put a few questions 
 to her, and having made sure that she had nothing of moment on 
 
 * French Minister of Wurtembur^, and formerly Secretary to the Embassy 
 where Mous. de la Ferronnays was, at St. Petersburg, 
 
a50 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 her conscience, gave her absolution as she stood there, or, at any 
 rate, his blessing and leave to go to Communion. Then she goes 
 on to give a long description of the procession — one of the most 
 beautiful she ever saw — what with the music, the flowers, the 
 men with their hats dressed up with flowers, the women looking 
 so good and earnest, and the faith of the whole population, on 
 their knees, singing beautiful hymns, and singing them well. 
 From all that she says of the faith of the country, I do not pity 
 her for being there, nor can I look upon her as isolated in a 
 religious point of view, though she is far from those who speak 
 the only language she cares to hear. The Princess goes to 
 Korsen from Prague, and then the winter plans will be decided. 
 That will be a painful time for Alex. Painful, if she goes with 
 her mother, and painful if she leaves her, — every way there is 
 struggle and pain. Poor darling, what a sad life it is ! Can he 
 who would have gone through anything on earth to spare her 
 a single annoyance, can he see her suffer so much and not be 
 grieved at it even in Heaven ? Well, we must believe what we 
 are told, and that the foreknowledge of the blessed, which 
 reveals the promised reward, makes the trials and sufferings of 
 life seem short and trifling compared with the reward of Eternity. 
 I think I have given you a faithful abstract of Alex's letter. I 
 am pleased to think that you cannot complain of me as a corre- 
 spondent, and you must own I fulfil my promise of being exact 
 and going into details. 
 
 ' Olga is now remarkably pretty, and there is such simplicity, 
 purity, and charm about her. I am so glad to have her here. I 
 cannot end my letter without telling you that I am as happy as 
 ever. Ah ! that earthly happniess which I thought I despised so 
 much, how could I bear to do without it now ? Farewell, dear and 
 faithful friend of my whole life. Now, as always I say, may God 
 deprive me of every joy, rather than in any way embitter yours.' 
 
 The second anniversary of Albert's death was drawing near, 
 and this time Alexandrine was separated from all those who had 
 been with her the year before. But she was not forgotten, and 
 the best friend of her sorrow wrote to her as follows : — 
 
 THE abr:^ gerbet to alexandrine. 
 
 ' Meaux, June 29tli, 1838. 
 ' I thank you very, very much, for your good, excellent, and inte- 
 resting letter, begun at Ulm, and ended at Ischl. I will come 
 back to it by-and-by, but the sad anniversary of to-day must 
 be thought of first. I hope, my poor child, you have been able 
 to spend it in the way you wished, and that your heart was at 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 peace in its grief. It is just twelve o'clock, and you are, I hope, 
 free to weep, to pray, and to lift up your heart and mind to God. 
 For some days I have said Mass for you, but I should like to 
 have seen you at least for a few minutes, and said some of those 
 words which used to comfort you two years ago. If, besides the 
 consolation which God alone can impart, there is any sweetness 
 in the thought that you have on earth a friend who sympathizes 
 with your grief, who feels it in his own heart, who would fain 
 bring you within reach, as it were, of Heavenly melodies, who 
 thinks he is appointed by God to be to you a friend in mourning, 
 a brother in tears, a teacher of hope, and who esteems this 
 mission a high and a sacred one — if, I repeat, there is any comfort 
 in the thought of such a friend, remember, my dear child, that 
 among others who do thus feel and labour for you, I have 
 accepted and will fulfil these dear duties to the utmost of my 
 power. I ask Albert to obtain for me this favour, for such I 
 consider it. I have specially prayed for him during the last few 
 days, and I have also asked him to pray for me. The grave at 
 Boury, though so far from Ischl, was not deserted on the 29th ; 
 there is no solitude for a soul except when it is forgotten. 
 Wherever you go, you carry with you that grave, and its 
 prophetic inscription.* God gives to love and sorrow something 
 of His own all-powerful attribute.' 
 
 We shall now see in what way Alexandrine was spending the 
 anniversary which the Abbe Gerbet was commemorating with 
 her at a distance. Eugenie sent me the letter to Lisbon with 
 this comment : ' Has she not Heavenly joys in the midst of her 
 sorrow ? ' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUG:6nIE. 
 
 ♦Ischl, July 3rd, 1838. 
 * My dear Sister, — I have always something to tell you, and 
 though it is fatiguing to write so much, I am now going to do so 
 at great length. This evening, in the drawing-room, I felt a 
 silent joy, a pleasant excitement, which made me mentally ex- 
 claim, as I began in thought a letter to you, " Blessed be God for 
 having brought me to Ischl ! " The common-place evening, and 
 the conversation of four women besides ourselves, have cooled 
 me down a little, but still I am very happy. I have been able to 
 assist a young man, and moreover a Priest, dying of consumption ; 
 and unless I had come to Ischl, he would have died with a weight 
 on his heart from which, thank God ! I have been able to relieve 
 
 * Alexandrine had caused to be engraven upon the Cross : — ' Quod Deus con- 
 junxib, homo non separet.' 
 
352 A SISTER'S STOUT. 
 
 him. I inust relate tlie story at length. Yesterday it came into 
 my head to go into the garden, where I admired the roses and 
 the butterflies, and then having sat down in a little arbour to read 
 Bossuet, I was surprised to hear church-bells ringing. I thought 
 it must be for some service, and having asked one of the maids, she 
 told me that they were just going to take the Blessed Sacrament to 
 a young Priest who was ill. I had already heard Mamma speak of 
 this young Priest, and had been restrained by my usual shyness 
 from saying I should like to see him. Now I could go quite 
 naturally. I knelt down with every one else at the street-door 
 while the clergy were going by, and then I went upstairs and was 
 present whilst he received the Last Sacraments. Every one, even 
 the cure, shed tears. Afterwards I asked leave to speak to the 
 sick man, and said my husband had been ill in the same way. It 
 affected me so much ! Think of a young Priest, only eleven months 
 ordained, and who, I knew, had hastened his death by too much 
 study, dying of consumption — there was something to me so sacred 
 about it. A calm smile was on his face. I asked his blessing 
 and knelt down by the bed. He seemed touched, and blessed me 
 by laying his cold hand on my head. I thought of it with 
 pleasure all the remainder of the day. I wanted very much to 
 go again to-day, for he had said he should like it. Fortunately, 
 they came to tell me he was worse, and that his death might be 
 looked for at any moment. This gave me an excuse for going in 
 the evening. Mamma, however, thank God! never objects to 
 this sort of thing. He begged me to excuse his not talking to 
 me, as he was not allow^ed to speak. 
 
 'After I had stood for a little time looking at him, with 
 reverence and compassion, listening to his difficult breathing, a 
 sound, alas ! I knew so well, it seemed cruel to stay there doing 
 nothing, and I was about to go away, w^hen it occurred to me to 
 ask him if there was anything in which I could be of use to him. 
 " There might be something," he gently answered. I quickly 
 asked "What?" He replied, "If you knew all the circum- 
 stances." I pressed him to mention them, and he said, with 
 that strange expectation of getting well, which is one of the 
 symptoms of consumption, " that he would tell me about it when 
 he was better." Of course I urged him to speak at once. Then 
 he said, "I cannot speak now." The nurse was in the room. 
 I understood what he meant, and she also took the hint, and 
 went softly away, and I told him that we were alone, He still 
 hesitated, and said " It is too bold a thing to do." I exclaimed 
 that he must look upon me as his sister, and speak to me as he 
 would to a sister, for we are all members of one family. This 
 seemed at once to decide him to speak. He said he owed what 
 
A UISTEB'S STORY. 353 
 
 lie called the immense sum of three hundred francs, for he was 
 quite a poor man ; he had been obliged to study very hard, and 
 his books had ruined him. His parents had eleven other children, 
 and he was dreadfully distressed at the idea that they would be 
 burdened with this debt, the amount of which he had only 
 ascertained a few days ago. I told him at once that his debts were 
 paid, and O ! how happy I felt. He thanked me, and I thanked 
 him for the happiness he had given me. What it was to hear him 
 say that an enormous load was taken off his breast ! I assure you 
 it was a great joy. But he kept on repeating "that he had been 
 too bold, and that it was only his illness which had made him 
 speak." On the other hand, I went on saying that we all had one 
 Father, and were all brethren ; and when I told him to sleep well, 
 he smiled at me in a way which implied he could sleep well now. 
 ' To-morrow I shall take him the money, after my beloved 
 seven o'clock Mass. He will not die to-night, but I do so long 
 to give it him. I can hear him coughing now ! My window is 
 open, and I can see the light in his room from here. ! I think 
 it was Albert who brought us to this lodging, to be here exactly 
 on the 29th of June. This, indeed, has been a great blessing from 
 God, and I had such pleasant thoughts as I sat at work this 
 evening. After such joy as that, it is impossible for several 
 hours to be sad. I feel nothing but faith and love. How sweet 
 is the tie of Catholic brotherhood ! The whole scene in his room 
 yesterday and to-day was so serene and peaceful. The sun's rays 
 fell on his bed through the green blinds, and there was a piano 
 and some flowers in the little white cheerful room. There is 
 something particularly solemn about a Priest's death. He wrote 
 to his father and mother to-day. I do hope they will come in time.' 
 
 * Wednesday, July 4th. 
 * I took the money to the sick man this morning. Imagine the 
 happiness I felt when I saw the look of joy in his eyes, and heard 
 him say that a great weight had heen taken from his mind, and that 
 he had slejpt several hours during the night. When I told him how 
 glad I was that I happened to be here, he answered that it had 
 indeed been a blessing to him. He had been in such great 
 trouble, and did not know what to do, but God had sent an 
 Angel to help him. He said it quite simply, and in this case I 
 could acquiesce in what he said; for Angels are only the messengers 
 of God, and I have evidently been His messenger. What good 
 it does one ! It is the second time that I have been happy 
 enough to assist a Priest just at this time. Last year it was 
 
 Mons. L , and this year this poor consumptive young man. 
 
 I like so much to help consumptive people, especially on their 
 
 2 A 
 
356 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 * I do not like tMs place. Large towns are not to my taste, 
 especially before I have got into my own groove. I have none 
 of my Ischl pleasures here ; no poor people to brighten my life 
 — no Priests to speak to, and the house is always full of shop- 
 men. That odious languor and heaviness is beginning to steal 
 upon me.' 
 
 • Prague, August 7th. 
 
 * Here I am at Prague, a most interesting city in interesting 
 Bohemia, but it seems very odd to find myself suddenly in the 
 midst of people speaking a language I cannot understand. I 
 might as well be in Spain, for the Bohemians do not understand a 
 word of German. 
 
 ' I shall write to your mother all the details of my visit to 
 Kirchberg, and will only tell you that I set ofi" alone on Satur- 
 day from Vienna, and am still in amazement at all I did and saw. 
 You can imagine how pleased I was to see your father and Fer- 
 nand again, and our good aunt Blacas ; and, then, all those I 
 found there.* Fancy my arriving without having had time to 
 change even my gown or stockings, or hardly to arrange my 
 hair. It was all so sudden, that I was obliged to put my vanity 
 in my pocket. I thought it all very interesting, and every one 
 was so good and kind to me, that I am still quite touched when 
 I look back to my visit. My mother is come, and your father 
 spent some hours with her, after which he went away, and left 
 Femand with me for a few days, which is pleasant, for I am very 
 fond of him ; all this time he has been writing me such dear nice 
 letters. We are afraid my brother, Alexander, will not be here, 
 as we had hoped ; but Putbus is coming, and only think, who 
 else ? — the Duke and Duchess de Rauzan If Fernand professes 
 great admiration for the Duchess, and you know the Duke is an 
 old friend of ours. I have not a moment more. You know how 
 I love you.' 
 
 Alexandrine's visit to Kirchberg was thus described by 
 Eugenie : — 
 
 * Just fancy how our Alex made her entry into the Chateau de 
 Kirchberg. Shy people are always those who take the bull by 
 the horns. You know that my aunt was to have met her five 
 miles from the chateau, but when Alexandrine got there she 
 found no one. Upon which, without Julian or Constance, she 
 got into a kind of cart, with a great travelling-bag in her hand, 
 and her bonnet all crooked, as it so often is. In this way she 
 
 * The family of Charles X. 
 
 t Claire de Duras, daughter of the well-known Duchesse de Duras. 
 
A SISTER' 8 STORY. 357 
 
 made her appearance at tlie cMteau, where she was received by 
 my aunt with the utmost kindness, and immediately presented 
 to all the Royal family ! After staying there about two hours, 
 she started again to return to her mother. Poor darling ! Can- 
 not you see her driving up in the cart, with her hair flying about ? 
 With her shyness exposed to such a trial, how distressing it 
 must have been ! I have no fears as to the effect she produced, 
 for she pleases everybody everywhere, no matter in what dress, 
 or under what circumstances. Nothing could exceed the cordi- 
 ality of her reception. There had been, indeed, a great desire to 
 see her.' 
 
 It was during this stay at Prague that Alexandrine's visit to 
 Korsen was again put off. She left her mother, therefore, about 
 the middle of August, and as her brother. Count Alexander 
 d'Alopeus, had not been able to go to Prague as she had hoped, 
 she went to stay with him at The Hague, where he was Secre- 
 tary of the Russian Legation. From there she wrote to 
 Eugenie : — 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUGENIE. 
 
 • The Hague, August 24th, 1838. 
 ' My dear Sister, — Behold me at The Hague, and safe after 
 the perils of the Rhine.* I have seen my dear Alexander again, 
 who came to Rotterdam to meet me. I was waiting for post- 
 horses at the inn, to go on to The Hague, when some one knocked 
 at the door, and Alexander came in, and embraced me with such 
 deep feeling and affection, that I was quite touched. After we 
 had sat down to talk, I saw that he still trembled, and tried to 
 hide it, as if it were a great weakness. Poor, dear brother, he 
 loves me very much, and may God reward him for all his kind- 
 ness ! I am so glad I took this journey for his sake, and that I 
 can stay with him the whole week. But it is painful to me to 
 find a number of acquaintances here whom it is impossible to 
 avoid ; while at Paris I would not even go into your mother's 
 drawing-room. I shall, however, refuse all invitations, and must 
 therefore decline even a little family party at Mons. Maltitz's, 
 my brother's first attache, and that old friend of ours I told you 
 of, who became a Catholic at the time of my father's death. My 
 dearest, about that change in my dress which Mamma so urged 
 upon me at Prague, — I promised her to wear white collars and 
 caps, which she said looked better, and were more economical. 
 This, however, did not seem to satisfy her, as she thought them 
 almost as melancholy as the black ones. She wanted to per- 
 
 * A violent storm came on when she was in the steamboat. 
 
358 .4 SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 suade me to wear silk and grey things. Poor Mamma ! She 
 would like imperceptibly to draw me back into the world again. 
 I do not like to annoy her, but she does not know what eiFect 
 even that little word grey had upon me. Meanwhile, I shall 
 arrive at Lumigny as I am^ but please to get me some white 
 collars, the deepest mourning you can find, and let them be the 
 simplest, cheapest, and the least smart-looking possible. I hope 
 to be there to-morrow week, that is, on Saturday, the first of 
 September; but it will be late — perhaps not till the evening. 
 Pray for me and Mamma and my brothers. Ah ! dearest, how 
 pleasant it will be to see you again ! ' 
 
 Whilst Alexandrine was at The Hague with one of her brothers, 
 she went through much suffering on account of the other. I 
 shall briefly state the circumstances, as they are connected with 
 an incident which occurred during this journey. 
 
 Some after-dinner frolic, which had taken place at an officer's 
 mess, at St. Petersburg, in which Count Feodore d'Alopeus had 
 been concerned, had drawn down severe military punishment on 
 all those who had taken part in it. Count Feodore was sent to 
 the Caucasus, deprived of his rank of officer, and for several years 
 Avas made to undergo in that humiliating position all the hard- 
 ships of the dreadful war. In time, however, his irreproachable 
 conduct and great bravery not only obtained his pardon, but also 
 the Emperor's favour, which, after his return from exile, was 
 evinced in a marked manner. 
 
 But in 1838, when Alexandrine was in Germany, her brother 
 was still undergoing the full rigour of his sentence, and she had 
 thought of going to Tophtz, where the Russian Emperor then 
 was, to solicit his pardon in person. She remembered that when 
 at sixteen she had broken off a marriage arranged for her at S. 
 Petersburg, and had thereby incurred theill-will of many persons 
 both at Court and in the town, the Emperor had lent her his 
 fatherly support. She still bore in mind that on a certain day, 
 in the gardens of Tsarskoe-Selo, where she had last seen the 
 Emperor Nicholas at the beginning of his reign, and in all the 
 splendours of that majestic beauty which added so much to the 
 prestige of sovereign power, he had taken her hand, kissed it, 
 and placed it in her mother's, saying these words to Mme. 
 d'Alopeus, which Alexandrine had often thought of since, " Pro- 
 mise me she shall never marry any one against her inclination."* 
 This recollection strengthened her desire to seek the Emperor 
 and implore his mercy ; she could not feel afraid of a sovereign 
 
 * ' Promettez moi que vons ne lui f erez jamais faire qu'un mariage d'inclination. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 359 
 
 whose image was associated in her remeinbrance with everything 
 most attractive and kind. But twelve years had elapsed since 
 then ; dark clouds had obscured the brightness of that dawn; 
 much gloomy resentment, and many a bitter prejudice had taken 
 hold of that once noble heart, and the mournful consequences of 
 absolute power had worked sad changes in one who, at the outset 
 of his reign, had showed himself full of moderation and gene- 
 rosity. Alexandrine was advised by a friend not to present her- 
 self before the Emperor, who was irritated against her, both on 
 account of her marriage and her change of religion. Still, Albert 
 was the son of a man whom he had always taken pleasure in 
 calling his friend, and to whom he had given proofs of his friend- 
 ship and interest which can never be forgotten by his children. 
 It could not, therefore, be expected that Alexandrine's marriage 
 could have criminated her in the Emperor's eyes, or that, as she 
 had been brought up a Lutheran, her conversion could offend 
 him as much as if she had left the Russo- Greek Church, of which 
 he was the head. But the French Revolution of 1830, and that 
 in Poland which succeeded it, had excited in this monarch the 
 most violent antipathy to the French and to Catholicism. The 
 two leading acts of Alexandrine's life went in direct opposition 
 to both those feelings, and had therefore awakened in the Em- 
 peror's mind a keen resentment, which the weak part of his cha- 
 racter led him to show as much to the helpless and obscure as to 
 those high in power. He possessed one of the characteristics of 
 generosity; he knew how to resist the strong, but he never 
 thought of sparing the weak. 
 
 Alexandrine did not, therefore, execute her plan, and went on 
 straight to The Hague ; but my father, who was then at Toplitz, 
 and had frequent occasion to see the Emperor, one day broached 
 the subject which Alexandrine had so much at heart, and spoke 
 of her great wish to have come in person to solicit her brother's 
 pardon. But, at the very first word, the Emperor frowned, and 
 said, ' The Princess Lajpoukhyn is very unfortunate in her children ! ' 
 With some quickness my father reminded the Emperor that 
 Alexandrine was his own daughter-in-law, and asked if he looked 
 upon her marriage as a misfortune ? ' No, no,' the Emperor 
 instantly replied, ' it is not that,' and he added some flattering 
 expressions about Alexandrine. ' But,' he continued, ' I detest 
 these changes of religion. They are brought about by Priests, and   
 I cannot endure them.'' My father immediately answered, ' Would 
 the Emperor have been of the same opinion if my daughter-in- 
 law had joined the Greek Church?' At these words the 
 Emperor reddened with anger, and cutting my father short, 
 exclaimed, ' Enough of this, my dear Count ; do not let us have 
 
360 A SISTER'S 8T0RT. 
 
 a controversial discussion.' He abruptly changed tlie conversa- 
 tion, and it was never possible to allude to the subject again.* 
 
 Alexandrine remained a little while with her brother, and 
 before leaving The Hague, she wrote me the following lines : — 
 
 ' Pauline, — I have not even time to write to you. The world 
 is like glue, and we like poor insects with a hundred legs, who, 
 while they are getting one foot free, are fastened down by all the 
 rest, and if we loosen ourselves on one side, we are caught again 
 on the other. Being absent from our friends is one of the most 
 tiresome imperfections of this life. Only think that I have never 
 yet had an answer from you to my letter from Ischl, in which I 
 told you of my finding Mamma there, and now I have parted from 
 her again ! Ah ! pray for Mamma, do me this kindness, and God 
 will reward you. You describe things so well, as usual, in your 
 last letter, and understand exactly what suits me, and in what 
 way I can still find pleasure in hfe. I shall answer your dear 
 letters at Lumigny, where I shall have a little quiet time to 
 myself. 
 
 ' You know that Mamma was most kind to me, but after hesi- 
 tating a long time, she would not accept my ofier of going to 
 Korsen. She dreads a Russian winter for me, but she would 
 like me to go to Korsen in the spring, with Alexander, by sea 
 from The Hague to Petersburg. Pray that I may not have 
 reason to repent agreeing to her suggestion, which had enabled 
 me to return to France as I wished. I parted with her at 
 Prague on the 12th of August, with a sorrow as great, or rather, 
 greater than ever. We both started at the same time, and 1 
 came to Dresden with Putbus. I left Dresden alone on the 
 evening of the Assumption, after being present at the magni- 
 ficent service, and hearing the famous choir. At Leipzig I had 
 the great joy of seeing Pauline the First for some hours. 't 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 * Ltunigny, September 1st, 1838. 
 * I am in momentary expectation of Alexandrine's arrival. 
 Every crack of a whip, and every sound of cart-wheels, makes 
 me jump. These are the moments that I have always thought 
 make up for the sufferings of separation. I know few feelings 
 so pleasant as that of expecting some one we love. When will 
 yoii give me this pleasure, you, very dearest of all ? Ah ! my 
 own Pauline, when shall I see you again ? 
 
 * The desired favour was, however, voluntarily granted a little time afterwards, 
 t Madame Wolf, also named Pauline. 
 
uivivciroi I 1 
 
 OF 
 
 A SISTER'S STORY. 361 
 
 * Perhaps I may be able to tell you this evening before I go 
 to bed, that our third sister is arrived — or if not this evening, it 
 must be to-morrow. What joy ! Yes, there are great joys in 
 this poor world ; transient ones, but often very bright. I have 
 been arranging her room — that little room you know so well; 
 and I have put in it a quantity of flowers, a black straw bonnet 
 I had made for her, and a little white muslin cap, with a plain 
 black ribbon ; all those little preparations which are tokens that 
 we expect a beloved friend. My darling, it ought to be your 
 turn now. Come, do come soon ! I am going to bed, and I 
 have nothing to tell you — she is not yet come.' 
 
 ' Sunday. 
 
 ' It is twelve o'clock, and she has not arrived. Pazienza ! 
 But I shall be very much vexed if she does not come this 
 evening, as I am obliged to go to Paris to see Emma, whom I 
 have not seen for six months, and who cannot come here just 
 now on account of her poor sister Caroline,* who is in a hope- 
 less state. The Abbe Gerbet has done her (Caroline) immense 
 good. We all know what it is to hear him speak of Heaven, 
 and can imagine what it must be to any one just about to depart 
 from this world. 'f 
 
 ' Paris. 
 
 ' I was obliged to leave home without seeing Alexandrine, and 
 to-day I hear that she arrived about two hours after I had left, 
 which you must allow was vexatious. I am sorry to have 
 missed that welcome sound of the horses' bells, the rattle of the 
 wheels, the joy of rushing into the arms of the darling traveller. 
 I have heard from her ; and now, at least, she is at Lumigny quite 
 well, and to-morrow I shall see her. Dear Pauline, why are 
 you not here to share our joy ? ' 
 
 'Lumigny, September Sth, 1838. 
 
 * It was impossible to send off this letter from Paris, and I 
 was obliged to bring it here. You have heard from my mother 
 all about Alexandrine's arrival. What joy it was to kiss her, 
 and clasp her in my arms ! She is just the same outwardly and 
 inwardly as when she went away, with the exception of the little 
 change in her collar and cap, which are only rather less pretty 
 than when they were black. Good-bye. God be blessed for giving 
 us happiness in this world, without depriving us of that which 
 will be eternal ! ' 
 
 * The Duchess de Cadore. 
 
 f She recovered, and was restored to her family ; whereas it was Eugenie who 
 had to receive the consolations she speaks of. Thus are our apprehensions and 
 hopes often equally deceived. 
 
360 A SISTER'S 8T0RT. 
 
 a controversial discussion.' He abruptly changed the conversa- 
 tion, and it was never possible to allude to the subject again.* 
 
 Alexandrine remained a little while with her brother, and 
 before leaving The Hague, she wrote me the following lines ; — 
 
 * Pauline, — I have not even time to write to you. The world 
 is like glue, and we like poor insects with a hundred legs, who, 
 while they are getting one foot free, are fastened down by all the 
 rest, and if we loosen ourselves on one side, we are caught again 
 on the other. Being absent from our friends is one of the most 
 tiresome imperfections of this life. Only think that I have never 
 yet had an answer from you to my letter from Ischl, in which I 
 told you of my finding Mamma there, and now I have parted from 
 her again ! Ah ! pray for Mamma, do me this kindness, and Grod 
 will reward you. You describe things so well, as usual, in your 
 last letter, and understand exactly what suits me, and in what 
 way I can still find pleasure in life. I shall answer your dear 
 letters at Lumigny, where I shall have a little quiet time to 
 myself. 
 
 ' You know that Mamma was most kind to me, but after hesi- 
 tating a long time, she would not accept my ofier of going to 
 Korsen. She dreads a Russian winter for me, but she would 
 like me to go to Korsen in the spring, with Alexander, by sea 
 from The Hague to Petersburg. Pray that I may not have 
 reason to repent agreeing to her suggestion, which had enabled 
 m.e to return to France as I wished. I parted with her at 
 Prague on the 12th of August, with a sorrow as great, or rather, 
 greater than ever. We both started at the same time, and 1 
 came to Dresden with Putbus. I left Dresden alone on the 
 evening of the Assumption, after being present at the magni- 
 ficent service, and hearing the famous choir. At Leipzig I had 
 the great joy of seeing Pauline the First for some hours.'l: 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 * Lumigny, September 1st, 1838. 
 *I am in momentary expectation of Alexandrine's arrival. 
 Every crack of a whip, and every sound of cart-wheels, makes 
 me jump. These are the moments that I have always thought 
 make up for the sufierings of separation. I know few feelings 
 so pleasant as that of expecting some one we love. When will 
 yo2i give me this pleasure, you, very dearest of all ? Ah ! my 
 own Pauline, when shall I see you again ? 
 
 * The desired favoiir was, however, voluntarily granted a little time afterwards, 
 f Madame Wolf, also named Pauline. 
 
UNivcroi I 1 
 
 OF 
 
 A SISTER'S 8T0RT. 361 
 
 * Perhaps I may be able to tell yon this evening before I go 
 to bed, that our third sister is arrived — or if not this evening, it 
 must be to-morrow. What joy ! Yes, there are great joys in 
 this poor world ; transient ones, but often very bright. I have 
 been arranging her room — that little room you know so well; 
 and I have put in it a quantity of flowers, a black straw bonnet 
 I had made for her, and a little white muslin cap, with a plain 
 black ribbon ; all those little preparations which are tokens that 
 we expect a beloved friend. My darling, it ought to be your 
 turn now. Come, do come soon ! I am going to bed, and I 
 have nothing to tell you — she is not yet come.' 
 
 ' Sunday. 
 
 * It is twelve o'clock, and she has not arrived. Pazienza ! 
 But I shall be very much vexed if she does not come this 
 evening, as I am obliged to go to Paris to see Emma, whom I 
 have not seen for six months, and who cannot come here just 
 now on account of her poor sister Caroline,* who is in a hope- 
 less state. The Abbe Gerbet has done her (Caroline) immense 
 good. We all know what it is to hear him speak of Heaven, 
 and can imagine what it must be to any one just about to depart 
 from this world. 'f 
 
 ' Paris. 
 ' I was obhged to leave home without seeing Alexandrine, and 
 to-day I hear that she arrived about two hours after I had left, 
 which you must allow was vexatious. I am sorry to have 
 missed that welcome sound of the horses' bells, the rattle of the 
 wheels, the joy of rushing into the arms of the darling traveller. 
 I have heard from her ; and now, at least, she is at Lumigny quite 
 well, and to-morrow I shall see her. Dear Pauline, why are 
 you not here to share our joy ? ' 
 
 * Lumigny, September 8th, 1838. 
 
 * It was impossible to send off this letter from Paris, and I 
 was obliged to bring it here. You have heard from my mother 
 all about Alexandrine's arrival. What joy it was to kiss her, 
 and clasp her in my arms ! She is just the same outwardly and 
 inwardly as when she went away, with the exception of the little 
 change in her collar and cap, which are only rather less pretty 
 than when they were black. Good-bye. God be blessed for giving 
 us happiness in this world, without depriving us of that which 
 will be eternal ! ' 
 
 * The Duchess de Cadore. 
 
 f She recovered, and was restored to her family ; whereas it was Eugenie who 
 had to receive the consolations she speaks of. Thus are our apprehensions and 
 hopes often equally deceived. 
 
362 A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Lumigny, September 5th. 
 
 * I must write you a line. I still feel a kind of surprise at 
 finding myself here. All changes, I think, more or less astonish 
 me. This ought to assist our faith. If we can scarcely believe in 
 departures and returns, it is not extraordinary that we find it 
 difficult to realize the immense change from time to Eternity. 
 You see, dearest, that I still indulge in my favourite metaphysical 
 disquisitions. I am always so glad that you also like to look at 
 things in this way. Think of my being at Lumigny, expecting 
 Eugenie. Is it not strange ? How little we know, even in the 
 smallest matters, what course things will take ! How many 
 little vexations are mixed up, too, with our joys ! It was a real 
 disappointment to poor Eugenie to miss the sound of ray carriage 
 driving up to the door, and I also was much damped when, in 
 the height of my delight at arriving, I heard that she had left 
 the house about an hour and a half before. And now it is I, 
 with your mother and Olga, who am going to meet her. This 
 disappointment reminded me of what I had felt at Boury on the 
 night you arrived there. My heart was beating with joy, and 
 was dying to throw my arms round your neck, but we had to 
 suppress our tears, kisses, and everything not to wound the 
 feelings of Mme. de Mun.' 
 
 EUG:^NIE to PAULINE. 
 
 * Lumigny, September 15th, 1838. 
 Adrian has been ill. I felt afraid that God was going to with- 
 draw from me the blessing which I indeed promise every day to 
 resign without murmuring ; but, alas ! when I examined myself 
 yesterday to see how I should make the sacrifice, I found myself 
 exceedingly weak. How wonderful that is ! A year ago I held 
 very little to this world, and though I loved you all with a great 
 and tender love, I looked upon death as a short and insignificant 
 evil. I neither believed in happiness nor in misery, because they 
 are both fleeting, and six months have sufficed to revive my faith 
 in happiness, and to teach me that the loss of it is a sacrifice 
 worthy of Grod's acceptance. Ah ! these two days' anxiety have 
 shown me how changed I am, and it is altogether a new feeling 
 to be so attached to earth.' 
 
 ' October 11th. 
 
 * Adrian is well again, and now a word about myself. Last 
 Wednesday I was not allowed to write to you, they are so afraid 
 I should tire myself. I am to be kept in cotton, for the hope of 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 363 
 
 a whole kingdom is not hailed with greater joy than the expected 
 blessing in our httle home. It is the one idea in everybody's 
 mind, within and without doors, in the chateau and in the village, 
 and there is not a creature that does not tell me to take care of 
 myself. My first thought, my darling, was to be sorry to pos- 
 sess any good thing which you are deprived of. ! how much 
 greater would mine be if you were equally blessed, my dearest 
 little sister, so long and fondly beloved ! May all earthly joys be 
 poured upon you, and Heavenly ones too. I am very glad you 
 have got a pretty house, but sorry you are settled there for 
 another whole winter. I hope, at least, that spring will bring 
 you back again, for there seem to be so many separations before 
 death. There are, indeed, too many of them.' 
 
 ' November 3rd, 1838. 
 ' You have been uneasy about me, but the letters you have by 
 this time received must have quite satisfied you as to my in- 
 teresting health. I am, in fact, wonderfully prosperous. Will it 
 last ? Indeed, I hope so. I cannot but think Grod intends to 
 give this poor father and mother the only consolation they are 
 willing to accept. For my part, I am resigned whatever He 
 sends, and I pray every day to be deprived of the happiness of 
 having a child rather than to have one who would not be really a 
 Christian. A thousand times a day I offer that little soul to God, 
 that He may grant it His love at the same time as He gives it life ; 
 and then, after thinking of the kind of beauty I wish for the soul, 
 I think also of the beauty I desire for the dear little face. I 
 confess I should like it to be pretty, and to have eyes like those I 
 often dream of. But, however, Grod will ordain it all, and every- 
 thing He does is well done ; but I keep pondering over this 
 mystery of birth, which is so great that there is no equal to it but 
 that of death ! To think that a creature will be who now is not ; 
 that within me an immortal being will live, and that this soul 
 once created can never perish. In all this there is surely cause 
 for admiration at the wonders God works ! "We shall not probably 
 stir from home till after the great event ; and what happiness it 
 would be if you could be all assembled here before the end of 
 April. And then if you were here at the very time — you, whom 
 I feel so much to want in all the important moments of my life. 
 May God grant it, for there is no joy Hke the joy of meeting I' 
 
 Before this last letter had been written Alexandrine had gone 
 back to Boury with my father, mother, and Olga. The Abbe 
 Gerbet went there also, and stayed some time with them. He had 
 just made up his mind to go to Rome, as he thought, for six or 
 
3G4 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 eight months. He ended by remaining there ten years. Three 
 years later, those whom he left at Boury met him in Rome at a 
 time of deeper and more painful trials than any they had yet gone 
 through. The Chateau de Boury he never saw again, for when, 
 after a long absence, he returned to France, it had passed into 
 other hands, and there remained no longer on earth a single one 
 of those souls which he had so wisely guided, and helped forward 
 on their way to that Eternal Home whither he has now himself 
 followed them. 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUGENIE. 
 
 * Boury, October 14tli, 1838. 
 
 ' Here I am again in this dear place which we both love so well. 
 This morning I went to the cemetery, and it seemed to me as if I 
 had left but it the evening before. To go away from that spot is 
 what feels strange to me, and to return to it so very natural. I 
 am so at home there with that dear grave, my only property and 
 my garden. Well, do you know that those tender, sweet feelings 
 were followed by a fit of vexation when I saw the number of 
 frightful flowers which were growing about it. Nobody will un- 
 derstand that it is only some particular flowers I wish to have 
 there, and only in certain places. For iustance, in a spot where 
 I had desired them to plant nothing but roses, I found a flower 
 that I hate, and where there ought to have been jessamine and - 
 honeysuckle, there were only ugly bushes. I shall never see it 
 quite as I should like, for probably I shall never be here in the 
 summer, but if I cannot have at other times of the year the 
 flowers I Hke, I will not have those I dislike. I pulled up myself 
 those hideous yellow flowers. 
 
 ' Yesterday all Dangu came here. Olga and I sang the Litany, 
 and " Jesu wie suss^ Our visitors seemed very much pleased, 
 and Olga played even better than usual. That dear, dear chapel ! 
 O ! how many different kinds of memories are bound up with 
 poor Boury. Thoughts of death, marriage, friendship, piety, love 
 of the poor, interesting conversations, and innocent jests. In 
 short, dear Boury is quite after my own heart. I get on ad- 
 mirably with Olga, who is so good and pleasant to live with. 
 Yesterday I exhibited to the whole party the handkerchief I 
 have embroidered for her, and they admired it very much. 
 Emma sends her love. I saw her and her mother on Monday, 
 which gave me pleasure, for I love them both dearly.' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 * Lumigny, November 9tli. 
 ' I cannot tell you what nice and well- written letters I get from 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 365 
 
 Olga, full of sweet pretty little thoughts. She gives me an 
 account of her life, which seems to be well and usefully occupied. 
 She has taken the children's classes again on week-days, and on 
 Sundays she assembles the young women of eighteen and twenty, 
 and reads to them. She speaks of her delight in ornamenting the 
 chapel with flowers, and says her young days are so bappy that 
 she shall always look back to them as the happiest of her life. 
 She is quite right, for I have known the same kind of happiness, 
 and I can testify that the recollection of it brightens the thoughts 
 of past life. But there are few girls who at her age would like 
 this sort of existence as much as our good little sister ; and it 
 touches me to see her, so young and so pretty, having had no 
 great troubles in her hfe, and yet preferring such simple and holy 
 occupations to the pleasures of the world. 
 
 ' My Paulette, how much I love you ! I feel it more every 
 day, and each one of your letters shows me what a close intimacy 
 there is between us. More so, I think, than has ever been the 
 case with any sisters. Thank God ! there has been no change in 
 this respect — marriage, separation, different modes of life, nothing 
 disturbs this strict union. You have been such a good and 
 faithful friend to me, my dear sister, and I hope that He who 
 has watched us walking hand-in-hand here below will not 
 separate us in Heaven. When death comes before us in a sad 
 and repulsive form, we should quickly turn our eyes to that 
 glorious Home. It is but a dark passage leading to boundless 
 light. 
 
 ' You will understand our poor father's grief His friend the 
 Duke of Fitzjames* has died suddenly. He was much in my 
 father's thoughts. He had been to see him, and was going again. 
 He feels it very acutely. If we do not all hold ourselves ready it 
 is not for want of warning. How many, both young and old, 
 among those we have known, have vanished. This dear Duke 
 loved us, especially you, as if we were his own children. As he 
 is now, we trust, in a place of hope, let us pray for the repose of 
 his soul.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUGENIE. 
 
 ' Boiiry, December 7th. 
 ' My head aches a little with the fatigue of entertaining all the 
 visitors who came this morning. I could not say much to the 
 poor Duchess de Fitzjames.f Only to look at her made me cry, 
 and I am sure she knows how deeply I feel for her. She tries all 
 the time to keep back her tears, but can never long restrain them. 
 
 * First Aide-de-camp to Charles X. f Sidonie de Choiseul Gouffier. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 She is most sweet and gentle, occupies herself about others, and 
 even smiles sometimes. But her grief is one of the very greatest, 
 so unforeseen, with so few consolations, and she loved him so 
 devotedly. It will be terrible for her to go back alone to her 
 house in Paris. She went the two nights she was here to night- 
 prayers in the chapel — those same night-prayers, during which 
 you sang on one occasion the hymn, " Come Holy Ghost," at the 
 poor Duke's request. When she was in the carriage this morn-, 
 ing I kissed her hand, and said we should pray for her a great 
 deal. She answered in a voice stifled with tears, ^'Pray for him P* 
 I said that we had done so already, and all of you also. Do pray 
 for him most earnestly.' 
 
 * Boury, December 8th. 
 ' Cesarine* has been here, and very pleasant. She is so 
 obliging and agreeable, with tastes that I like, and talents that I 
 admire. Your father had at first wished that the picture she had 
 made of me for yo a should be a surprise, but afterwards he forgot 
 this, and spoke of it himself to Mons. de Mun, vrithout enjoining 
 secrecy. I should have rather enjoyed the idea of sending you 
 the parcel without your having the least idea that you would find 
 your old sister's face within side of it. Everybody says it is like 
 me, and I see in it an expression which pleases me, because it 
 gives the idea of one who is thinking of God, and of some beloved 
 person. Cesarire has a most charming talent. She wished to 
 introduce many things into the picture, but I would have my 
 dress and also the table and curtain just as it is.f Fancy her 
 wishing to put a black lace veil on my head. I would not hear 
 of it, and I am afraid she thought me very obstinate. Do you 
 
 know that that good Httle goose of sixteen, Helen B , has 
 
 married a certain Tricochet, all for love, and without a farthing ? 
 She was so determined, that she would have run away with him, 
 and the Abbe married them last Saturday just before the old 
 beadle's burial, so that the sound of the wedding fiddles mingled 
 with the passing-bell. This is positively true.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Boury, December 26th, 1838. 
 ' My Dearest, — I was waiting for a letter from you before 
 writing. Your letters are far better than mine, but you see I am 
 
 * Ceaarine de Beam, Marquise de Caraman. It is to her charming talent that 
 we are indebted not only for Alexandrine's picture, which is mentioned in this 
 letter, but also for the only one we possess of my mother, and another equally 
 like of Olga. 
 
 t Both memorials of Albert. 
 
A SISTER'S 8T0BT. 367 
 
 not good at writing. I always find that to tell everytliing takes 
 too much time, and if one writes at ever so much length it is not 
 enough, and farther explanations are generally necessary. But 
 do not be afraid. I shall not forget any of the little things we 
 like to talk over together. You shall hear everything about 
 everything when we meet, and it will be as it was the last time, 
 we shall find the days and the nights too short for all we have to 
 say. I do not at all despair of your both being here for Eugenie's 
 confinement. Grod grant it ! 
 
 ' The day after to-morrow the Abbe will have been gone a fort- 
 night. I am glad he goes to Rome, but I shall be stiU more glad 
 when he comes back. Poor dear Mamma has written me a beau- 
 tiful letter. She tlianks me for having been to Communion for 
 her and my brothers, and says, " She hopes it will he accounted to 
 them as if they had received it themselves. ^^ She always writes in 
 the kindest manner, praising me very sweetly, and says I am 
 more and more dear to her — I should like the Emperor to see her 
 letters. But you, Pauline, must not praise me so falsely. How 
 dare you say that I am the most unselfish person in the world, 
 when I have made even to you so many selfish complaints ? And 
 then, if you knew how I love to be comfortable, and how I hate 
 mud and pain ! ' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Lumigny, December 11th, 1838. 
 ' I am spending this Advent season as you may suppose in 
 recommending myself to the Blessed Virgin. Then will come 
 that dear Christmas-time which I have always loved so much. 
 That holy crib that I always think of with such joy ! Now in- 
 deed more than ever 1 shall go there in spirit and lay that child 
 in the manger which I present with such ardent love to the 
 Divine Infant Whom it will worship one day itself. And when, 
 five months hencej if God so wills it, that dear infant is born in 
 Mary's own month, may I not hope that the Divine protection 
 asked before its birth will never be withdrawn ? ' 
 
 * Lumigny, Christmas Day, J838. 
 ' You have heard from Mamma of Marie's* death. My poor 
 Marie ! How terrible this blow is ! All that time at Lucca and 
 Rome, when she was so bright, so happy, comes back to my mind 
 with such tender feelings of afiection for her ! Death is not 
 sad because of Heaven, but still this vanishing from earth is 
 dreadful. She suffered intensely and with great resignation. 
 
 * Marie Borghese, Vicorutesse de Mortemart. 
 
368 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 No one knows beforehand what strength will be given in the 
 time of trial when it comes through God's will. In sending it, 
 He sends extraordinary graces to bear it. Marie received all 
 the Last Sacraments, and her last words gave me the sweet and 
 comforting assurance that she died with trust and hope.' 
 
 EUGl^NIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Liimigny, January 8th, 1839. 
 
 ' Pauline, I was numbering up the other day in my mind the 
 blessings which God has bestowed upon me. I have had every 
 kind of happiness. First and foremost I was born a Christian and 
 a Catholic ; brought up in pious habits, and in the knowledge of 
 spiritual interior joys. I have had parents whose sole study 
 has been to make their children happy; sisters who have been 
 beloved friends — a true friend like Alexandrine, and, lastly, a 
 good husband and a home which make one feel even after the 
 experience of all those previous joys that now for the first time 
 happiness is complete. Well, over and above all this, comes the 
 crowning gift, the dearest and most sacred of all ties. After 
 having learnt what it is to be the happiest of daughters, sisters, 
 wives, and friends, I am about to be a mother ! Has any one, 
 my own dear Pauline, ever received so many benefits from God? 
 I feel what an immense weight of gratitude it lays upon me, and 
 what an account I shall have to give in return ; and yet when I 
 went over the past year in my mind, I found only much ingrati- 
 tude to set against this great debt. My eyes filled with tears, 
 and I felt as if for the first time I had ever made a firm resolution. 
 It was that this whole year should be one thanksgiving for the 
 last, and in all my words, thoughts, and actions, give thanks 
 for the benefits I have received. It seems to me that I am now 
 trying reaUy to cure my faults. Alas ! you know well what they 
 are ! But I have never been so resolved, so in earnest, or so con- 
 vinced of the necessity of doing what I know I ought. I feel 
 that ingratitude for such a lot as mine would be a fearful sin, and 
 that I shall have to give an account for everything I have received. 
 God tries us by happiness as well as by sorrow, and in neither 
 case must He be forgotten. You will find me, I hope, improved ; 
 what you liked in me come out, and what was bad corrected. 
 People do mend, so this may happen to me. 
 
 ' My dear sister, here are four pages, for which, were I writing 
 to any one but you, I should have to apologize, but to my earliest 
 and best friend I may say all I feel. To-day I thought I had 
 nothing to say, and I have filled four pages. Women are born 
 talkers. If our mother Eve had held her tongue, we should be 
 better ofi" than we are.' 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 369 
 
 ' Lumigny, January 29th, 1839. 
 
 ' It seems wonderful. A year ago, my trousseau was being 
 exhibited, and now I am looking at tbe clotbes made ready for 
 my baby. What changes in one year ! Who would have fore- 
 seen that all this could happen, and my inward peace remain 
 undisturbed. I was for a long time afraid it would not be so. 
 It is only since the last two or three months that my heart and 
 my head are in tolerable order. I do not waste time in thinking 
 what I can do for Almighty God, but I try every day to do the 
 small things He requires of me, knowing that efforts to overcome 
 my faults are more pleasing to Him than fasts and hair-shirts. 
 Ah ! I do hope I may become good, and love Him in return for 
 His goodness ! 
 
 ' Do you know that a sister of Malibran's has just come out, 
 who has, they say, the same kind of talent ? Will she ever equal 
 our poor Malibran, whom every one now forgets ? For my part, 
 I faithfully say the De Profundis for her ; does anybody §lse, I 
 wonder, think of praying for her soul ? There is nothing which 
 so much saddens the thought of fame as the oblivion which fol- 
 lows death ! 
 
 ' I have begun the Pickwick Club. It kills one sometimes 
 with laughter, but what pathos there is in the story of that miser- 
 able actor, with which it opens. The mixture of the pathetic and 
 the horrible gives it an air of truth, and it affected me almost to 
 tears. The idea that there can be real misery of that kind in 
 every theatre, will pursue me whenever I am at the play. To 
 think of the iDitter tears which red and white paint may be con- 
 cealing, would be enough to make one repent of laughing. 
 
 ' Only fancy that my father-in-law questioned me the other day 
 about my political opinions. He is extremely surprised that my 
 father's daughter should not be deeply interested in public affairs, 
 and he would be so glad if I would talk politics a little. What 
 am I to do ? Will you teach me ? ' 
 
 • Lumigny, March 22nd, 1839. 
 * While making preparations for the birth of the dear little one, 
 who will soon, we hope, appear, I do not forget that that moment 
 may be the one appointed by Grod for my departure from this 
 world, and I prepare for that also as much as I can. I have 
 arranged all my letters, for I like everything to be in order, both 
 in my soul and my mind. I have no fears, nor even gloomy 
 thoughts, about that time, but I tell myself that many people do 
 die then, and that though it does not seem probable in my case, 
 I must nevertheless be prepared ; and for this end, I now always 
 
 2 B 
 
370 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 hear Mass with that intention, and trust that God will grant me 
 a good death. Pray for me to Uve, if you like, but pray, too, 
 that I may die well.' 
 
 Eugenie's eldest son was born on the 20th of April, and Alex- 
 andrine wrote me the news. 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 'Paris, April 24th, 1839. 
 ' My dearest Sister, — Thanh God ! These are the first words 
 I must write ! You have not had to bear an anxious suspense, but 
 perhaps the news will be a surprise to you. Eugenie came here 
 on Saturday, the 19th, and on Sunday, at five o'clock in the 
 morning, her child — Eugenie's child — was bom. The sun had 
 just begun to gild the houses opposite, which I thought was 
 pretty. It was on Sunday, and you will see what the Gospel for 
 the day was, " When a woman is in travail, she is sorrowful, hut 
 when her child is born, her sorrow is turned into joy.'" Everybody 
 was struck with this. The Bishop of Meaux happened to be here, 
 and baptized the baby. When it was taken to dear Eugenie 
 afterwards, she said, " Now God may take it back if He will." 
 Before this, she said to me, " Ah ! I bore my pains veiy badly. 
 I begged the Blessed Virgin that my sufferings might cease," 
 and she actually reproached herself for this. Mons. de Mun was 
 at church at Lumigny when the news came. The cure gave it 
 out directly after Vespers, and immediately the Te Deum was 
 Bung. I love this baby more than I ever expected to do, but 1 
 Pauline, the birth of this little child, which gives me so much joy, 
 and whom I look at and kiss with so much pleasure, makes me 
 bitterly feel my own sohtude. I am so useless in both these 
 families. If I had had a child things would have been different, 
 besides the immense comfort it would have been to . myself. 
 Before Eugenie was married she said sometimes, " If I ever wish 
 to marry and have a child, it is that I might give it to you." 
 And now, on the contrary, this dear little thing will steal away 
 from me another large part of its mother's heart. It is right, it 
 ought to be so, but it is not the less dreary for me. My dearest, 
 do be indulgent to my complaints.' 
 
 ' April 25th. — Good morning and good bye. Eugenie is going 
 on well, thank God ! and I am less sad.' 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 'June 6th, 1839. 
 
 * My best-loved Pauline, — I must only write one word, but it 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 371 
 
 will be with my own hand ; it is so long since I have written to 
 you. Before I speak of myself, I must say something about your 
 last letter, and the delightful news it contained. 1 what it will 
 be to see you, to have you at Brussels, so near us ; and where I 
 can so easily go, for many of Adrian's relations live there, and 
 are always asking us to visit them. What happiness it will be, 
 dear Pauline, to put my little child into your arms ! It does seem 
 so extraordinary. I can hardly believe he really exists, even 
 while I am looking at him, and kissing him. He is a darling, 
 and I think will be pretty. Farewell, my dear sister, I love you 
 more than ever.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 * Paris, June 10th, 1839. 
 * Dear Pauline, — I am writing to you while Fernand is singing 
 to the piano something so pretty that I am more inclined to listen 
 and dream than to write ; but I must tell you that during the 
 last few days I have felt so strongly the love and goodness of 
 God, that it has filled me with joy. Ah ! my dear sister, let us 
 love Grod, and all those we love in Him alone. This is the way 
 to be happy. Our dear Lord is good thus to increase my faith, 
 just when I am most deprived of the solace of friendship. I took 
 leave of Mental a week ago. He was here when he heard of 
 your appointment to Brussels, and he was charmed, both on his 
 own account, as on ours. My dearest darling, is it possible that 
 you will be here in a few weeks ? I need not say how the 
 thought of it gladdens my heart. No ; you are right, it may not 
 be diflS-Cult to save one's soul, but perfection is another thing. 
 And yet my dear patron Saint, S. Augustine, said, " Love God, 
 and do what you please." Is that so terrible ? Our Lord 
 teaches us also, that everything is comprised in the love of God 
 and our neighbour. Let us always aim at that, and we shall 
 keep in the right way, and need not repine too much about 
 austerities. Love is the best teacher, and shows us a straight 
 road, and a pleasant one too, for what is there sweeter than love ? 
 Love fulfils the law.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Boury, July 17th. 
 ' I have just received your dear letter, in which you say that 
 our story edifies you. Dear friend, how lovingly you dwell on 
 that story, and what pleasant things you say about it. I do 
 thank you for that. You cannot think how much good it does 
 me to know that I am so often in your thoughts ; poor me, 
 
 2 B 2 
 
372 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 who care so much about being loved, and who even covet a very- 
 high degree of affection. But I think I have not yet mentioned 
 the 29th of June. You know I was here alone, without Eugenie, 
 without your mother, and in bad weather. Nevertheless, in spite 
 of wind and rain, I had the happiness of carrying a quantity of 
 flowers to Albert's gi'ave. But we shall be able to talk about all 
 that when you are here. We expect a letter from you on Satur- 
 day, to tell us something about your coming.' 
 
 Towards the end of July, Eugenie went to Boury, for the first 
 time since her marriage. She spent some happy weeks there, 
 and then left it never to see it again. On her return home she 
 wrote me the following letter : — 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Lumigny, August 7tli, 1839. 
 ' I spent a delightful time at Boury. I never cared for it so 
 much, never felt more tender love for our beloved parents, and 
 for our dear brothers and sisters. And how I did enjoy that 
 pleasant kind of life, and the chapel, now quite finished, and so 
 pretty ! You know all the changes that have been made in it ; 
 the greatest improvement I think is the tribune. The organ 
 and voices sound so much better from above. But you will soon 
 see it all yourself The last days I was at Boury, that thought 
 was always in my mind. I wish I could have stayed there till 
 you arrived, but you will soon come here, will you not, my 
 Paulette ? It is out of the question that we should be long 
 within reach of each other without meeting. The very thought 
 of seeing you makes my heart beat ; I do so long to feel your 
 arms about my neck. O ! my dear people, make haste to set 
 out and to get here ! ' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Boury, October 9tli, 1839. 
 * At this moment I am alone, my dear ; yes, alone with Julian 
 in this large house,* but I do not mind it. I bear these soHtary 
 hours better than I used to do. Just after they went away, when 
 I was sitting alone and in the dark, it was rather melancholy. 
 But I did not dwell upon it. I either read, or write our story ; 
 and when I am doing that, six hours of complete solitude do not 
 seem to me long enough. These recollections have, thank God ! 
 a soothing effect upon me, notwithstanding the suffering mixed 
 up with them, and the days pass away without weariness with 
 * My mother and Olga were gone out on a visit in the neighbourhood. 
 
A SISTER'S ST0B7. 373 
 
 God and Albert. I am now writing the account of our early- 
 married days, and it engrosses me to sucli a degree that I quite 
 forget what is going on around me, and live my past life over 
 again. Whatever people may say, I think imagination is a most 
 blessed and useful quality ; it is like a magic mirror. When I 
 look at that old family Journal, that we called the " newspaper," 
 it touches me to see your and my absent brothers' handwriting, 
 and I say to myself, " My happiness is shattered, but there still 
 remain dear fragments of it, which I would fain gather round 
 me, and you will always be the dearest and most important of 
 them all to me. I like also sometimes to play on the organ, 
 when I am by myself, but whether I am in my own room, or in 
 the dear chapel, I always feel glad to be here rather than at 
 Paris, or Dangu. I like the melancholy silence of this place, a 
 thousand times better than the noise of the world. It seems to 
 me even more wonderful than wrong to make amusement the 
 business of life, when, from whatever side you view it, life is so 
 sad and full of suffering. Do not suppose I would banish 
 amusements from our earthly existence ? By no means. If 
 Albert had lived I should have taken my full share of them, and 
 have been just as strict a Catholic as I am now. But I want 
 amusement to be the recreation and refreshment, not the 
 business of life.' 
 
 I have now reached the period in which Olga will become 
 more prominent in these memoirs. She was now about the age 
 of eighteen, and it is time to describe her more particularly, or 
 rather to let her describe herself, as the others have done. I 
 open then the little Journal where she also used to write down 
 the thoughts occurring to her mind, and the little incidents of 
 her peaceful days. It is, no doubt, an imperfect, perhaps a 
 childish record ; but there is about it, I think, a very sweet 
 fragrance of youth and poetry, with a piety which sometimes 
 rises to elevation of thought. That chosen soul expanded and 
 ripened later so fast, that it is well to study her character a little 
 at this time of her hfe, so that when we find her strong and 
 courageous in the time of trial, it may be borne in mind that our 
 dear little sister was hardly more than a child. The very sight 
 of her poor little Journal affects me, for the trembling and 
 uncertain writing reminds me of the continual deprivations 
 against which she struggled so patiently. 
 
 In another part of this narrative I spoke of Olga's partial 
 blindness, which, though not externally affecting her eyes, 
 spoiled our enjoyment, often deprived her of sight, and made 
 study peculiarly difficult to her. Yet how she delighted in it. 
 
374 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 and with what perseverance she would wait, with a book in her 
 hand, till the moment came when she could see enough to read ! 
 In the same way she Avould sit at the piano, in a part of the 
 room sheltered from the light, playing sometimes for hours 
 together, and making laborious efforts to overcome the difficulties 
 occasioned by her weak sight, without ever uttering a word of 
 complaint, or imagining that her perseverance had any pecuhar 
 merit in it. Thus many little daily acts of self-denial simply and 
 constantly practised, prepared the way for those greater virtues 
 which were soon so strikingly offered to our imitation in her 
 brief Hfe. Now I return to that Journal, which begins with her 
 serious mood : — 
 
 olga's journal. 
 
 ' Lumigny, June 25th, 1839. 
 
 * Eugenie has read Albert's Journal to me. How short and 
 full of suffering has been his earthly life ! But the goodness of 
 God softened the bitterness of his pains by immense consolations. 
 He said himself, "Everything that ends is very short ;" and 
 God has removed him from this sad world to a beautiful land 
 where joy lasts for ever, and where he is waiting for us. Pray, 
 dear Albert, for your very poor little sister. Remember, I am 
 your sister. Think of me, and pray that I may die well, and be 
 one day where you are now. ' 
 
 ' Lumigny, August 16th, 1838. 
 ' Poor Madame Collat died this morning. I went to see her 
 with Eugenie af^^er leaving the church, and gazed some time on 
 her dead face. What a singular expression there is in death, or 
 rather what a singular absence of expression ! There is some- 
 thing in it solemn and awful, and yet I like it. But it is very 
 wonderful — that is all I can say. Those eyes shut for so long a 
 time, that motionless body, the soul, which for so many years 
 has been shut up within it, and oppressed by the weight which 
 crushes and encompasses it, till it almost forgets its immortality, 
 — that soul which sometimes becomes so much a slave to base 
 matter, that it does not even desire to be set at liberty, and far 
 from discerning the freedom and happiness of the state which it 
 would enjoy without the burthen of the body, actually shudders 
 at the idea of deliverance, and thinks with terror of the sufferings 
 it TV-ill have to endure when its bonds are broken by the Voice of 
 God. 
 
 * Poor soul ! this is miserable indeed. But after the first 
 moment of fright and surprise, what joy it must feel at finding 
 itself bright, agile, and most happy ! How gladly it must fly 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 375 
 
 into the arms of its Deliverer, and hear those beautiful words 
 addressed to itself : " The winter is over and gone ; the eternal 
 spring has begun for thee ; for here there is no more sorrow, no 
 more suffering, no more death, — only love, joy, and immortality," 
 Ah ! blessed soul, the unnumbered sorrows which those around 
 you complain of are blows from the merciful hand which strikes 
 to purify and to reward ; the last sickness which seemed so cruel 
 and terrible, the agony of death, all these miseries are now 
 forgotten, or seem like a speck in endless space. How joyful to 
 think that these moments of suffering are followed by an eternity 
 of happiness ! Ah ! blessed souls, who no doubt look down with 
 great pity upon the sad chamber in which your icy-cold bodies 
 He, and where your friends are sadly weeping around your 
 remains, do not forget that the time of misery which now seems 
 short and easy to bear, was then wearisome to you also, and pray 
 for those still bound by the chains of this sad life. Pray, 
 too, that our souls may become free, help us to catch some 
 glimpse of the immense happiness to come, that we may not 
 sink so hopelessly low as to love this life and never wish to 
 leave it.' 
 
 ' September 3rd, 1838. 
 * One of the chief miseries of this world is that we become 
 accustomed to everything — to happiness as well as misery ; and 
 when our brief moments of joy are over, we fall back into 
 monotony. Sometimes it happens (I have felt it myself) that 
 we lose, through the dull form of habit, all sensible feelings 
 of love for those whose return, after a long absence, has been one 
 of our greatest joys. In Heaven this dreadful power of hahit 
 will cease. Our delight in being with our friends will increase, 
 instead of dwindling and fading away ; and as we advance into 
 Eternity, there will only be fresh cause for gratitude and joy. 'No 
 more coldness there — ^no more indifference; every heart will 
 overflow with boundless love. What inconceivable happiness ! 
 Even I, so cold and insensible, shall be full of enthusiasm and 
 devotion ! Is not this enough to make one wish to die ? and 
 yet I do not wish it. So many young people die now. It is sad 
 and awful in one sense, and yet if we had real faith it would not 
 be melancholy ; for must we not look upon it as a special bless- 
 ing to go out of this world without undergoing the miseries and 
 infirmities of old age ? And pious, holy people, whose hearts 
 are filled with ardent love, must like to make the sacrifice of 
 their young years to God, when they can ofier up their strength, 
 understanding, and whole will, instead of giving Him nothing 
 but the days of old age, with scarcely energy enough to utter an 
 
376 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 act of resignation and suffering, so prostrating them that even 
 to think becomes difficnlt. It seems to me that there is the 
 same difference between the offerings of youth and the offerings 
 of age as between the gift of a fresh and beautiful flower and a 
 faded one. 
 
 ' It is in this way we should learn to look at death even in 
 childhood. I do not mean to say that it is not sad. I am sure 
 I should be sorry to die, especially if, like that poor little Madame 
 
 d'O , I had to leave behind me a husband I loved, and two 
 
 little children. But still I hope I should see it in the right hght, 
 and bear in mind how short a separation it would be. Perhaps 
 I should not be good enough to feel this, but, on the contrary, 
 make the sacrifice with a bad grace. Well, there is one thing 
 certain. We must keep ourselves ready, and, as death may 
 come at any time, try to make the offering of our soul when 
 called for as pure as possible. This is what I beg of Thee, my 
 God.' 
 
 •Boury, June 29tli, 1839. 
 
 ' To-day it is three years since Albert died. After dinner I 
 went with Alexandrine to the cemetery. Mme. Dufour gave me 
 the most lovely roses I ever saw, and I carried them all to that 
 dear grave. Albert, pray for me that I may die a good death. 
 That grave strewn with roses made me think of Heaven. Later 
 in the day I took a walk with my father, who talked to me so 
 beautifully about religion. He has such ardent love of God ! ' 
 
 • October 17th. 
 ' I find I am more amused by our quiet evenings here than by 
 the gay parties at Dangu. Quiet enjoyments have a charm which 
 makes me feel really happy. But still I like society, and it 
 amuses me ; and after I have led that sort of life for a time, I 
 find it very difficult to settle down again to our usual sober 
 habits. A little while ago, for instance, I thought it would be 
 very disagreeable to spend the winter at Boury, and now I shall 
 make up my mind to it quite well. I have just now quite a pas- 
 sion for study, and I should like to have time to give myself up 
 to it, so that I shall comfort myself if we spend the winter here. 
 But I begin to believe in our going to !N'aples, and that idea is 
 charming too. I am so changeable ! The day before yesterday 
 I should have felt it a real disappointment if the Naples journey 
 had been given up. To-day I almost think I would rather stay 
 here, and to-morrow it will be something else. There is no doubt 
 that travelling is very amusing, and a kind of study ; a very 
 interesting one too. But I am not well-informed enough. If I 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 377 
 
 knew more, Italy would be most interesting; but it does not 
 much matter, I shall find it very amusing to be at Naples again, 
 and I dare say I can learn something there. If anybody read 
 this, it would seem rather pedantic, but it is nevertheless true, 
 that 1 have a passion for study. Two years ago, or perhaps even 
 a year ago, I wished to study only to find additional proofs of 
 the truths of religion. Now my desire is less perfect, for I like 
 to know what has taken place in former times. It interests me 
 to hear about people who have lived before me. This wish may 
 pass away, for I am not very constant, and it is likely enough 
 that the pleasures of Naples will make me forget my wish to be 
 learned. " Sard quel die sard.'* The Abbe Gerbet will be there, 
 and will check me if I incline to the wrong side. It will give me 
 great pleasure to see my friends Euphemie and Nathalie* again. 
 Yes, I shall certainly be very glad to go to Naples. There is the 
 second bell, and I have lost all this time ! It is very amusing to 
 write down all one's thoughts. I have not often time for it, so 
 when once I begin, I cannot stop.' 
 
 ' Paris, November 15th, 1839. 
 ' Paris — yes, I have been at Paris since Monday, It is a month 
 since I wrote my Journal, and it is always so when I have the 
 most to say. Pauline and Augustus arrived from Lisbon on 
 Sunday last, the 3rd, at dinner- time. My father and mother had 
 been as far as Beauvais to meet them, but did not find them 
 there. While they were gone I stayed with Alex in the drawing- 
 room, sometimes singing and playing on the piano, to while away 
 the time, but oftener starting up at the least noise, and running 
 from the drawing-room to the house-door and back again, in that 
 excited state of expectation which is full of joy and impatience. 
 Imagine our disappointment when my father and mother came 
 back alone ! Then Alexandrine and I established ourselves in the 
 corridor, listening with all our might, and at every moment mis- 
 taking the sound of the pouring rain for the jingling of the bells. 
 At last we heard a louder noise. It was really the bells this 
 time. Quick ! Father, mother, everybody — here they are ! 
 Everybody rushes, but nothing comes of it. There is a profound 
 silence and a general impatience. At last a voice is heard, " It 
 is a courier. They started from Gisors before he did, and will be 
 here in ten minutes ! " Great is the delight of every one, and 
 joyful the waiting and watching. At last, when half an hour had 
 elapsed, the carriage was seen driving up to the door — without 
 any bells jingling though — and we soon have our Pauline in our 
 arms. No end of conversations that evening, and then music. 
 
 * Eupliemie de Sonnenberg and Nathalie de Narishkin. 
 
378 A SISTER' 8 STORY. 
 
 "We sang the Spanish and Portuguese songs she had brought for 
 us, and then talked about Naples.' 
 
 We had now left Lisbon for good, but were not going to re- 
 main long in France, for before settling in Brussels, which was 
 our future destination, we were going to spend the winter at 
 Naples with my family. The plan mentioned in Olga's Journal 
 was decided upon, and my father, mother, sisters, and Alexan- 
 drine were all going to Italy. No one was to remain in France 
 but Eugenie. The prospect of this separation, which was so soon 
 to follow on my return, rather saddened the few days I spent 
 with her. How would that cloud have darkened had the future 
 been revealed to us ! An epoch in our lives had closed with 
 Eugenie's last visit to Boury. She had returned for a few days 
 to the spot where she had spent two happy and busy years, 
 and had once more taken her place for a little while in 
 that family circle, bringing with her her new happiness and 
 increased affection for all its members. Once more had Eugenie 
 prayed in that chapel, played upon that organ, visited the ceme- 
 tery, and gone about the village, looking at all those things, and 
 enjoying the thought that I too should soon see them again. 
 Little did she think that it was the last time her eyes would rest on 
 those familiar scenes, or still less foresee what members besides 
 herself would be missing when that family party met there again. 
 And when, after a short visit, I left Eugenie at Lumigny, well, 
 happy, and with her beautiful child in her arms, as little did it 
 occur to me what the effect would be upon her of the sudden 
 departure of all those beloved ones who used from time to time 
 to share the solitude of her life. I did not guess how bitterly she 
 would reproach herself for her inability to fill the aching void left by 
 the absence of so many of those she loved ; nor, alas ! was T aware 
 that she was even then labouring under a disease which aggravated 
 her trouble, and by which it was perhaps also painfully increased. 
 
 Nothing could be more joyful than our departure for Italy, 
 whence our return was to be so sad. My mother was delighted 
 to get my father away from a northern winter, and to give Olga's 
 youth a little amusement and excitement. Alexandrine was glad 
 to visit once more a country she loved so much, and which was 
 full of the recollections she most hked to dwell upon. Olga, too, 
 was naturally pleased at the prospect of this most charming of 
 all journeys, while I, who had been so long separated from my 
 family, found it delightful to be thus travelling in company with 
 them. One after another we left Lumigny to meet at Marseilles 
 on the 14th of December, and now I shall leave Olga to take up 
 the thread of the narrative. 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 379 
 
 OLGA S JOURNAL. 
 
 ' Marseilles, December 15th, 1839. 
 
 ' We are going straight to Naples, without stopping at Rome, 
 where my father will go alone. I am a little sorry for this, but 
 it is not quite decided, and at any rate we shall go there later. 
 
 'Yesterday on the road, I felt again afraid of growing ugly. 
 Olga, my dear friend, do you know that it is not at all pretty to 
 think so much about this ? What if you should become ugly ? 
 You must offer it up to God like any other trial, and perhaps it 
 will keep you from many sins of vanity. Provided you are 
 good, what does it signify about anything else ? ! yes, I 
 know all that, and I should rather be good and ugly than 
 bad and prett y ; but I should like better to be both pretty and 
 good. If I go on getting so fat it will be impossible to be 
 pretty ; and this vexes me. If I do not commit sins of vanity, 
 I shall perhaps be impatient and envious instead. For shame ! 
 how silly and frivolous I am ! ' 
 
 ' 17th. On board the steamboat off Genoa. 
 * ^f amma declares I cannot write here, but I am, however, 
 comfortably settled on the floor in the cabin, and the inkstand on 
 a stool beside me. ! what a climate and what a country this 
 is ! Yesterday we stayed on . deck till near ten o'clock, in the 
 loveliest moonlight evening, singing a number of pretty airs. 
 The weather, the calm se^, the glorious night, were indeed 
 enchanting, and it was the 16th of December ! What were our 
 dear ones at Lumigny doitig the while ? Either freezing, or 
 roasting by the great fire in the drawing-room. We thought of 
 that yesterday, and that perhaps they were asleep by that same 
 fireside, while we were laughing and singing in the open air as if 
 it had been the month of May. My father called us all at five 
 o'clock to see the sunrise. I went on deck with my sisters. It 
 is so beautiful to watch that magnificent sun rising out of the 
 sea, and on the other side the coast from Nice to Genoa, which I 
 saw for the first time, and which is enchanting. How delightful 
 it must be to live in a country like this, and how much better I 
 should like to be always here than at our melancholy Boury, 
 where I so often longed to see the Mediterranean and these 
 mountains again, and felt stifled in that hole ! Poor Boury ! I 
 beg your pardon, but I do not think you are pretty. I have had 
 very happy days there, nevertheless, but still I should like to 
 live in this magnificent country. Romantic ideas have also been 
 floating through my mind this morning. I thought it would be 
 pleasant to meet with a good husband in these parts, a good, 
 
?80 A SISTER'S ST0R7. 
 
 pious man, who would be fond of me, and who would have a 
 pretty villa on this charming coast, in which I should spend my 
 life. And then I made out for myself a most delightful exis- 
 tence. He was to be rich, that we might do a great deal of good, 
 and live very comfortably. How foolish any one would think 
 me who read this ! I thought we should make short journeys to 
 Lumigny, Boury, and Paris, and lead a most agreeable life. I 
 am always picturing to myself the future as if it must of course 
 be happy. I am afraid this is enough to bring me ill-luck. 
 God's will be done ! ' 
 
 ' Genoa, December 18th. 
 
 ' I am still in ecstasies about this country. Fancy my sitting 
 here with the window open, and no fire, and that it was much 
 too hot while we were walking, and that I have by me a lovely 
 nosegay of roses, violets, and jonquils, the perfume of which is 
 delicious. It was gathered for me at the Villa Pallavicini, not 
 in a hot-house, but in a garden full of flowers. It is really too 
 charming. We are not conscious of winter here. 
 
 ' We have seen several churches, and first the Annunziata, 
 which perfectly delights me. It is so long since I saw an Italian 
 church, and I appreciate them much more now than I used to 
 do. We went also to San Syro, which is fine, but I like the 
 Annunziata best of all, and we also visited the Cathedral and 
 San Lorenzo^ and the tomb of S. Catherine of Genoa. The sight 
 of that tomb impressed me very much. It is in the hospital in 
 which S. Catherine lived, and we went through the large, beau- 
 tiful, airy wards. The actual body of the Saint, which can be 
 seen, is frightful. It is clothed, and covered with jewels. I 
 thought of the vanity of beauty, and that the Saints in Heaven 
 must think how wise they were to despise it, and yet I cannot 
 help feeling that I should be sorry to be ugly ! Lastly, they 
 showed us the Saint's room, by the side of which there is now a 
 chapel. The paintings on the walls were done in her time, and 
 there were also some sentences inscribed which were either 
 spoken or written by her : — 
 
 ' " Amor TYiio, iion piu peccati ! Amor mio, non jpiu mondo ! Se 
 una goccia di quello che sente un cuore amante di Bio cadesse nell 
 inferno, i demoni diventerebhero Angeli, perche dove c^entra un poco 
 di amor di Bio, non vl jpuo essere ne jpena ne m.ale.^^* 
 
 ' While I was there the thought, and almost the wish, to 
 become a nun came into my head. The ****'s would say this 
 
 * O, my loving Lord, no more sins ! 0, my loving Lord, no more world ! 
 If a single drop of what a loving heart feels for God was to fall into Hell, the 
 devils would become angels, for where a little love of God exists there can be 
 neither suffering nor evil. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 381 
 
 was an inspiration, and indeed the impression was very strong. 
 Afterwards we went into two or three cliurches, when my only 
 prayer was that I might do God's will. Afterwards I thought 
 that I am too self-indulgent, too indolent, too much wanting in 
 fervour, ever to make this great sacrifice. But for some days 
 the idea has kept on coming back to me ; at any rate, I thought 
 that nuns must be very happy. As I look at the sun and admire 
 the beauty of this enchanting country, it strikes me how I should 
 enjoy these things if I were a nun, for if we are always so 
 delighted with the good or great things done by any creature 
 we love, how great must be the ecstasy of a nun, when she thinks 
 that God, who is more to her than husband, father, brother, 
 mother, or child, is the Creator of all this magnificent world. 
 O ! yes, my God, Thou art the author of all goodness and 
 beauty, and I understand that a passionate love of Thee must be 
 the most powerful of all feelings ! 
 
 * At Civita Vecchia we took leave of my father and Alexan- 
 drine, who went on to Rome, while we accompanied my mother 
 to Naples.* 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUG:6n1E. 
 
 ' Eome, December 21st, 1839. 
 ' My beloved Sister, — Here I am at Rome ! I write to tell 
 you so both on my own account and your dear mother's, who 
 begged me to give you tidings of us as soon as I possibly could. 
 It was the last thing she said to me when I was taking leave of 
 her. She is gone on straight to Naples with Pauline, Albertine, 
 and Olga, who was crying bitterly at not going to Rome. Tour 
 father, Etienne de Biron, Mons. de Tocqueville,* Mons. de Riviere, 
 and I, took the diligence at Civita Yecchia. But as Mons. de 
 Tocqueville forgot his writiug-desk, and went back on foot to 
 Civita Vecchia to fetch it, and as the pole of our vehicle broke, 
 we were thirteen hours instead of six on the road to Rome. It 
 was not till two o'clock this morning that we drove by that dear, 
 grand S. Peter's, magnificently lit up by the full moon. It was 
 with the deepest emotion I saw it again, feeling as I do now that 
 I belong to it. I went to bed at four o'clock, but slept only for 
 three hours. We found the Abbe Gerbet waiting for us this 
 morning in the sitting-room. I went to hear his Mass in the 
 Princess Volkonsky's chapel. He seemed to me to say Mass 
 with more intense and devout recollection than ever. To-morrow 
 I am to go to Communion at S. Peter's, which is real happiness, 
 and Albert will rejoice to see me revisit S. Peter's in this way. 
 
 * Elder brother of the author of ' La Democratie en Am4HqueJ 
 
332 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 At Genoa, I felt also great joy at being again in an Italian church, 
 and seeing it full of Franciscans. The same day I went with the 
 others to visit the body of S. Catherine of Genoa. At Leghorn 
 the sight of Dipoggi,* and of the inn where he saw me with 
 Albert, made me cry. And then I had the heart-ache because I 
 could not go on to Pisa. When we went on board again there 
 was much hesitation before your mother could decide on going 
 on straight to Naples, and returning to Rome with Olga for the 
 Holy Week. I think your father will be at Naples about the 
 middle of January. This is a stupid letter ; the fact is I feel 
 stupid myself, and I am sure you will understand why. Say a 
 thousand kind things to Adrian, and his father and mother, to 
 whom I shall soon write. How are you ? Do get into the habit 
 of mentioning yourself. Pray for me, and may God bless you ! 
 From my window I can see our Casa MargJierita T 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUGl^NIE. 
 
 * Eome, December 31st, 1839. 
 
 * My dearest Sister, — I have too much to say to you, too much 
 to say writing from Rome ! Thank you for your dear letter, 
 which I only received on Christmas Eve. Yes, I can imagine 
 you miss me, even in the midst of all your happiness, for how- 
 ever happy we are, the soul will often crave for something more 
 perfect still. Perhaps not even in Heaven will this faculty 
 be lost, but there our desires will be fulfilled as soon as they 
 arise. 
 
 * I must begin by saying that Mme. Th , that charming 
 
 Hortense we have heard so much about, is here, and yesterday — 
 without any previous introduction — I went to see her. I thought 
 her certainly exceedingly pretty, and she seems a very amiable 
 person, as, indeed, I have no doubt she is. She came to Rome 
 unexpectedly, on account of her health. Had she remained in 
 Paris, she would have had to be in bed all the winter. I shall 
 still find her here at Easter. 
 
 * Constance and I spent all Christmas night on foot, going 
 from the magnificent Midnight Mass at San Luigi dei Frances! 
 to Santa Maria Maggiore, where there was a very fine procession, 
 the carrying of the Holy Crib, and High Mass at the beautiful 
 chapel of the Blessed Sacrament. Then, after taking a cup of 
 cofiee, but without changing our clothes, we went on to S. 
 Peter s, where the Pope said Mass. It touched me so much to 
 look at him, and think I was now his child ; and it was with a 
 feeling of great joy that I knelt to receive a blessing from his 
 
 * The French Consul, 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 hand. Then at the elevation of the Mass said at S. Peter's 
 Tomb, with what rapture I fell again on my knees amongst 
 those poor English and other foreign ladies, who sat down all 
 the time. Ah ! if they only knew the intense gladness there is 
 in a Catholic heart, they would perhaps make some efforts to 
 become acquainted with our faith.' 
 
 * January 16th. 
 ' My dear, dear Sister, to-day I have got your second letter, 
 before I answered the first, and I am vexed also not to have 
 written to your mother-in-law, but I have not had time, for, as 
 Constance says, " I do not give myself time to breathe." It 
 would never have entered my head that any one could ask you 
 what it was that absorbed me so much at Rome ? Why, the 
 question answers itself. Is not Rome the sanctuary of the 
 whole world ? It is true, though, that hitherto it has not been 
 studied, or well known enough in that respect, and I hope the 
 Abbe Gerbet's new book* will exhibit it in its true Hght. It is 
 on this account, and with the idea that it may be useful to the 
 Church, that he remains here to finish that work. He is very 
 much touched with what you say, and feels as warmly and kindly 
 towards you as ever. Holy friendships of that kind last for ever, 
 and never injure one another. I have made two new friends, my 
 dear Hortense, and a German, Baroness Kimsky, a convert from 
 Protestantism, both very holy women. It is wonderful and use- 
 fully humbling to one's pride, to see such people. Both of them 
 really love suffering; and one has a spirit of devotion, and the 
 other of charity, which makes me feel as if I ought to sink 
 under the ground. I have seen the Holy Father, and knelt 
 with much pleasure at his feet. He granted me several precious 
 favours, which rejoiced my heart.' 
 
 After this short stay at Rome, Alexandrine went to Naples, 
 which awakened other and more painful recollections. 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUGENIE. 
 
 ' Naples, February 2nd. 
 * My Dearest, — What do you say to this date, written by me — 
 " Naples ! " How wonderful this life is, and how fortunate that 
 we have a better one to hope for. I came here on Thursday 
 night about eleven o'clock, and the mere passing by the houses 
 at Chiaja gave me a heavy bitter feeling of depression. Only 
 think that by the vetturino's mistake, I drove by our old house, 
 and yours, and thus saw them both again the first thing. Ah ! 
 
 * Esquisse de Rome Clvr4tienne (Sketch of Christian Eome). 
 
384 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 my angel husband ! Who bnt God could have comforted me 
 after losing all my earthly happiness ? It is a great comfort 
 to pray in churches here ; at Naples, where I lived only for a 
 human love ; at Naples, where I thought I had everything when 
 I had Albert ; at Naples, where I shall never see him again, and 
 where nothing is left me but God. Nothing but God ! And this 
 is so often the thought of our earthly unworthiness, as if we had 
 not enough in possessing Him ! My room looks into the garden- 
 of the Palazzo Acton, where I was married, and beyond it I can 
 see the Yomero. ! w^ith what marvelling I looked at all 
 these things, the day after I came. Well, I like to see it all, 
 and I do hope it is God's goodness, and the conviction of my 
 departed angel's bhss, and not my own indifference, that makes 
 these recollections sweet to me. 
 
 'At Santa-Maria-in-Portico, where I went yesterday, for the 
 sake of its associations, I was thinking that Albert would rather 
 see me there now a Catholic without him, than as I was formerly a 
 Protestant with him ; I felt, however, a bitter regret that I had 
 not been a Catholic during our short married life. But I quickly 
 remembered that whatever God does is well done, so everything 
 must have been for the best. I am not unhappy here, and I Hke 
 my room. The good Neapolitans look upon me as a fanatic, and 
 on that account leave me in peace, and I am glad to be with all 
 our dear people, and to rest after the fatigue of Rome. You and 
 our beloved angel are both continually in my thoughts, and what 
 would not I give to have you with me ! You ask me how I get 
 on here after Rome. Rome has, indeed, quite a different atmo- 
 sphere ; the very one for suffering hearts, because everything 
 there speaks of God, whereas everything here suggests thoughts 
 of earthly happiness. So that when that is all over, it might be 
 sad to live here, for there is no place in the world so well adapted 
 to be the scene of human love and human joys ! But how many 
 of those we used to know here, death has carried off! I have 
 still so many things to tell me. I saw Monte Cassino, by the 
 Pope's permission, and went into the monastery. What a situa- 
 tion that is, and what peace reigns on those solitary heights. 
 The monks are admirably good, and have that peaceful, kind 
 look I so often see in convents. Good-bye. May God make 
 you and yours Saints.' 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT. 
 
 'Naples, February 3rd, 1840. 
 ' I am at Naples. I cannot tell you what I feel at the sight of 
 all these places. There is not a house at Chiaja, not a spot in 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 385 
 
 the neighbourhood that is not hallowed by recollections which 
 can never be effaced from my mind. But my love for going over 
 everything that belongs to the past makes me like to be here, and 
 ^vhat would be bitter in the contrast between the past and the 
 present is sweetened by the one unfailing consolation, the blessing 
 of being here as a Catholic. My room looks into the garden of 
 the Palazzo Acton, where I was married, and a little farther on 
 I see the Vomero. Nothing could suit me better, especially as 
 here I am out of the way of the intolerable noise of the Chiaja. 
 I left Rome a week ago, and saw Monte Cassino on the way. I 
 was enchanted with that old sanctuary, and what a situation it 
 is ! What peace and goodness in the faces of those men raised 
 up above the earth, and who, both literally and spiritually speak- 
 ing, look down on the great highways of the world, the hum of 
 which scarcely reaches their ears. And what reverence we feel 
 for those religious brethren and sisters of past ages, whose own 
 history is lost in obscurity, whilst their admirable works still 
 exist ! I saw there Don Luigi Tosti, whom I thought very pleas- 
 ing, and who was enchanted by the gift of your S. Elisaheth, 
 and your remembrance of him. 
 
 ' To crown that pleasant day, I met at the monastery the Abbe 
 Jandel,* who, though not yet thirty, has been Superior at the 
 Seminary, and is now going to enter the Dominican Noviciate 
 at Yiterbo. He is an excellent man, and I was very glad to have 
 him as a travelling companion. He told me that during the last 
 few months twenty or thirty subjects have offered to joia Father 
 Lacordaire.* 
 
 Eugenie had been very anxious as to the effect which her 
 return to Naples would have on Alexandrine, and when she 
 received her letters, written in a spirit of such gentle resigna- 
 tion, it touched her so much that she expressed this feeling in 
 most enthusiastic terms, as will be seen by the following reply : — 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO EUGI^NIE. 
 
 ' Naples, March 8th, 1840. 
 * My dear Sister, one line only in answer to the " Bull of 
 Canonization,''^ as the Abbe calls it, which you have despatched 
 to me, and to which he listened with the utmost amazement. 
 We can neither of us get over it, and I assure you that his ex- 
 clamations would have greatly tended to obviate the perils of 
 this apotheosis, had I been inclined to take it in earnest. He 
 could only say, " What has she taken into her head ? Why, this 
 
 * Now General of the Dominican Oi'der, or Friars' Preachers. 
 
 2 
 
A SISTER'S STORT, 
 
 passes all belief! " We laughed over it very mueli, and I will 
 venture to say yon have quite forgotten how absurd your praises 
 were. It was a fine specimen of one of your fits of enthusiasm, 
 and all because I had written something from Naples about 
 being resigned to my sorrow. Yet you know that in my worst 
 moments of grief I always wished to see Naples once more. As 
 to the change you think you see in me since your marriage, it is 
 a delusion springing from the fact that you did not then know 
 what it is to love, and to love a husband, so it did not surprise 
 you in the same way as it does now that I can endure to Hve 
 without Albert. It is true, however, that I now have less of 
 that bad feeling which used to make me suffer at the sight of 
 the happiness of others. This is a great mercy, and perhaps 
 also the result of habit, which is so strong that we can get accus- 
 tomed even to the loss of happiness. God is infinitely good to 
 me, as He is to all His creatures, and He has given me interests 
 in religion, and a love of Catholicism, which I can only compare 
 to the love I have felt and do feel for Albert, and this is what 
 helps me to bear such a sorrow as mine almost without a 
 murmur. But these pleasures of the soul which I still enjoy, 
 though Albert is gone, do not prevent my having faults, and 
 very deep-rooted ones too ; and if, while you were writing that 
 wonderful panegyric, you could have known how bad my temper 
 often is, what ankind feelings I have about other people, and 
 then all my self-indulgence and cowardice, you would perceive 
 that I am as far from a religious vocation as you now seem to 
 think me near it. 
 
 * Adrian often surprises one by his ideas upon that subject. 
 Am I to take them as an omen ? There is, of course, nothing 
 impossible with God. The only thing true in your tirade is 
 what you say of the manner in which the Abbe has directed me. 
 I am constantly astonished at his wisdom, even though I have 
 now known him so long.' 
 
 Whilst Alexandrine's life was thus divided between her past 
 recollections and her eternal hopes, Olga was just at the age 
 when earth seems to hold out the most seductive promises. For 
 the first and only time in her existence she caught a glimpse of 
 the world and its pleasures. It proved a brief one, for, short 
 as her life was destined to be, it was doomed to undergo almost 
 as deep and complete a transformation as Alexandrine's. But 
 even during that transient gleam of sunshine which was now 
 gilding her eighteenth year, there are pages in her Journal which 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 387 
 
 show how good and serious thoughts were always mingled with 
 the lighter impressions natural to youth. 
 
 olga's journal. 
 
 * To-day I have had sorrows and pleasures. Sorrow because 
 my father was displeased at my staying so long at the Narish- 
 kins' yesterday evening, and I am so foolish that I sat with him 
 a whole hour wishing to say something about it, and not able 
 to open my lips, and I ended by crying ! Mamma said that it 
 made her anxious to see how I always allow myself to be carried 
 away by present pleasures. It is quite true. I let myself be 
 influenced by every impression, without having energy enough 
 to consider the consequences, and to take good resolutions. But 
 pazienza! May God make me good, and help me to get the 
 better of my faults. I have had to-day one real and great 
 pleasure. Fernand told me that yesterday evening, when he 
 was with E., S., R., and M., a beautiful letter had been read 
 aloud which Father Lacordaire had written some years ago to R. 
 They had joked about it at first, but in the end they all became 
 quite serious, and made good resolutions. This morning I had 
 a note from the N.'s, who told me that R. had said his prayers 
 yesterday for the first time since October. This gave me more 
 pleasure than I can express. It seems to me that if everybody 
 were good I should be better. 
 
 * O ! my Grod, by Thy Passion and by Thy Death, grant that 
 these good resolutions may last. Let all these men become good. 
 Bless them all, my Grod, and Fernand, and grant him the grace 
 to love Thee. Make E. really good, and S. a Catholic, and R. 
 as pious as he used to be. Protect them, help them, strengthen 
 them all. Do, my God, give them grace to keep their reso- 
 lutions, and let them all have wives who will love them and 
 help them to be good. I shall pray for them to-morrow. I am 
 going early to church for confession and Communion. 
 
 ' This evening the Abbe told me to say my prayers, and to 
 drive away all sad thoughts before going to sleep. I will try to 
 do this, and I pray that God may bless me, for I love Him, and 
 will always love Him. May Thy will be done in me, my God ! 
 Grant me to become really good, humble, and modest, and 
 give me strength to amend my faults. Lord, Thou knowest 
 I should like to be happy, but this, I am sure, will not 
 displease Thee. Thou knowest the sort of happiness I desire. 
 But if what I ask is displeasing to Thee, do not hearken to my 
 prayer. Let me die rather than offend Thee by mortal sin ; this 
 is a prayer I have always made ; may I preserve in it to the end. I 
 
 2 c 2 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 pray for all those I love. My dear father and mother, brothers 
 and sisters, for Mathilde, Fanny, Euphemie and Nathalie.* For- 
 give me, Lord, my many fanlts. I will not think of them too 
 much, I would rather dwell upon Thy infinite love. I cast my- 
 self into Thy arms. ! let me love thee. Let me never love 
 any one more than Thee ! ' 
 
 At that time Olga wrote to Eugenie letters which prove with 
 what confidence she opened her whole heart to her sister ; and 
 how well Eugenie deserved and turned to account the confidence 
 reposed in hef , the following answer will show : — 
 
 EUGENIE TO OLGA. 
 
 * February 17tli, 1840. 
 ' My dear little Sister, — To tell you the truth I think the feel- 
 ings you describe are only the momentary effect of your first 
 year in the world, when everything naturally enough strikes, 
 surprises, and excites you. Mistrust yourself, my Olgette ; try 
 as much as you can to keep your thoughts under control. When 
 you are in society, amuse yourself with simplicity of heart. You 
 are very young, and when real troubles come, you will be sorry 
 to have unnecessarily saddened that poor little heart of yours at 
 a time when it was inclined to be gay and happy. What is the 
 ruling idea which disturbs your mind ? Is it not a vague 
 anxiety about the future ; a restless impatience to know how 
 your lot will be fixed ? Try to calm these feelings, and to keep 
 your soul in peace. Put your trust in God. Turn to Him 
 whenever you are in danger of being carried away by the excite- 
 ments of the world. My dear little sister, one thing above all 
 others I would recommend to you, not because of any past 
 deficiency on your part in respect to the points in question, but 
 in order to warn you never to neglect it. Whatever may be 
 your thoughts, fancies, or feelings, always mention them — never 
 shut them up in your heart. The Devil takes easily advantage 
 of these bad fits of reserve. With a mother like ours, and such 
 a sister as Pauline, to both of whom you can say anything, and 
 who sympathize with all your feelings, even whilst they reason 
 with and advise you, it would be almost a sin not to avail your- 
 self of so great a help. These serious observations which I have 
 thought it right to make have not prevented me from being 
 deeply interested in all that you say in your long letter. Your 
 
 * Mathilde, Cotintess Amedee des Cars ; Fanny, Princess de Eospigliosi ; 
 Euphemie, Baroness de Eeding ; Nathalie Narishkin, now Superior of a house 
 of Sisters of Charity in Paris. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 389 
 
 description of the journey, and of tlie sights at Genoa, the pretty 
 acconnt of S. Catherine, your sudden notion of becoming a nun, 
 have all amused me, and are quite natural. I can see that then 
 your impressions were of a religious kind, whilst at Naples they 
 have been for the most part worldly ; and who knows whether 
 at the bottom of all these fancies, impulses, and dreamings there 
 is not lying concealed a grand vocation to some great height of 
 sanctity which will prove Madame de Castel to have been in the 
 right ? And then, when young ladies read your life they will 
 be delighted to find in so wonderful a Saint all their own little 
 frivolous follies and nonsensical fancies, which they will then 
 indulge with the comfortable idea of ending in the same manner! 
 ' I was sure that your friend Nathalie would become charm- 
 ing. I can exactly fancy what she is like, and it must be just 
 the sort of face I admire. If she remembers my existence, give 
 her my love, and to dear Euphemie also. I am glad you have 
 seen such good friends once more. And now, my dear little 
 sister, let me give you some more advice. Watch over yourself, 
 mistrust your inclination to indolence. Exert both your body 
 and mind. Force yourself to move about, as I force myself to 
 speak and to laugh, that I may conquer my natural taste for 
 silence. Take long walks, do a great deal during the day, never 
 refuse to go on an errand. Hand a chair to anybody who has 
 none, pick up the handkerchiefs that people may happen to drop, 
 and struggle against absence of mind as you would fight against 
 bad thoughts. Believe me all this is necessary. These are all 
 real Httle acts of virtue ; they will cost you something, but they 
 must be done. Then another thing — look after Albertine. You 
 must help her a little to grow out of her childishness, for this is 
 really your business. Bestow upon her a little of the interest 
 that you waste on other things. Be to her what Pauline was to 
 me. When she took me in hand I was a rough stone, but she 
 shaped and polished me. The doors of my understanding were 
 closed, but she opened them, and that time of my life has always 
 seemed to me a passage from night to day. Will you not do the 
 same for Albertine ? Had she been with me I would have under- 
 taken that task, con amove, for Pauline would always have been 
 in my mind. Do not forget to answer me about all this ; and 
 tell me how you manage about your dress, and what state your 
 purse is in. Take care not to get into debt. My sweet little 
 sister, I love you with all my heart ! God keep you from all 
 harm !' 
 
 In the beginning of April Alexandrine went with my husband 
 and myself to Rome for Holy Week. She wrote at that time to 
 
330 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 M. de Montalembert the following account of an interesting day 
 spent at the Dominican Convent of La Quercia : — 
 
 ' Eome, April 27th, 1840. 
 ' My dear Friend, — On the 14th of April the young Princess 
 Borghese* and her husband, Pauline, Augustus, and I met at 
 Viterbo, and the next day, Palm Sunday, we went early to La 
 Quercia. The bells rang, and the organ played triumphant 
 strains in that beautiful church. They made us all go into the 
 choir — we three women on one side, and opposite to us the dele- 
 gate. Prince Borghese and Augustus. I had knelt down and 
 bowed my head, but when I raised it again I saw near me two 
 Dominicans prostrate on the ground. It was Brother Lacor- 
 daire and Brother Requedat. They soon rose and listened to 
 the sermon addressed to them by the Priest who, for that day, 
 took the Superior's place. It was an excellent discourse. He 
 spoke of what their future life was to be : one of humility, obe- 
 dience, and mortification. He said they might be ordered into 
 different countries, and would have to go wherever they were 
 sent. That they must never attribute anything to their own 
 abilities, but nevertheless exert to the uttermost any talents they 
 possessed, and should they be called upon to give up their lives 
 as martyrs for religion, before they had done anything else in 
 this world, nothing could be better. At these words Pauline 
 saw a smile of rapture in M. Requedat's face. Then they both 
 made their profession in the hands of the Superior, who after- 
 wards affectionately embraced them. It was very soon over, 
 and then we were taken to see the miraculous Madonna which 
 is kept in the Oak-tree [whence the name of La Querela]. 
 Afterwards the two Fathers were sent for, to say a few words 
 to us. 
 
 * Father Lacordaire thanked us for having come, and told 
 Augustus and Pauline that in so doing he considered that we 
 had become partners in his undertaking. It has been, indeed, a 
 great honour to be present at the beginning of this great work, 
 and an important moment to look back to. This evening I went 
 with the Cravens and Madame Thayer to Cardinal Pacca's re- 
 ception. I was deHghted with him. He said you were a very 
 admirable young man.' 
 
 'Aprn28th. 
 
 * My dear Friend, — At last I have heard Father Lacordaire 
 preach, and I think it surpassed my expectations, which is not 
 
 * The beautiful and holy Lady Gwendoline Talbot, daughter of Lord Shrews- 
 bury J the first wife of Mark Anthony, Piince Borghese. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 3D1 
 
 saying a little. ! how I do like that fiery zeal, that steely 
 strength of conviction, that eloquence ! How I wished after 
 hearing him, I could do something. Some people were displeased 
 with his sermon, but I despise their criticisms. I should so 
 much like to have heard him again. He asked affectionately 
 after you. I have not time to say anything more, though Rome 
 abounds with subjects of interest, as you know. I am, perhaps, 
 going to Russia. Pray for me. Dear Anna,* I love you, pray 
 for me sometimes. God grant we may meet again some day or 
 other in this poor world ! ' 
 
 My mother and Olga were with us at Cardinal Pacca's recep- 
 tion. They had come from Naples, and were going on, the 
 next day, to Goritz, where my mother was to spend two months 
 with her sister the Duchesse de Blacas, who was residing at that 
 time with the exiled Royal family. It then consisted of the 
 Count de Chambord, his sister,t who was not yet married, and 
 the Dauphin and Dauphiness.:|: During this journey Olga wrote 
 very little in her Journal. I shall give, however, some brief ex- 
 tracts from it, partly because reminiscences of Royal personages, 
 however slight, are always interesting, and also that I may 
 linger, with a kind of mournful pleasure, over the pages which 
 speak of the father and sisters I was so soon to lose. 
 
 Olga was travelling vetturino with my mother and Fernand, 
 and wrote as follows : — 
 
 olga's journal. 
 
 ' Temi, May 6th, 1840. 
 * Enchanting country, where I should like always to live ! 
 Certainly I have not at this moment the least wish to go back to 
 France. We went into the church, which is not ugly, indeed 
 rather pretty, but there is not the least bit of marble in it, which 
 is strange here. My mother cried a great deal in that church ; 
 it was only this morning that I was remarking the wonderful 
 sweetness of her temper. My dear, good mother, always so 
 sweet, so kind, so equable, notwithstanding her anxiety about 
 my father ;§ how I felt to love her, and how I hate that shyness 
 which will not let me show it ! I am tired of writing. I will 
 
 * Countess de Montalembert. 
 
 t Marie Louise, afterwards Duchess of Parma. 
 
 X Marie Therese, the daugfhter of Louis XVI., and her husband, the son of 
 Charles X., and father of Count de Chambord. 
 
 § My father's health gave rise to the greatest anxiety, which she concealed, 
 not to give us pain. 
 
392 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 go and walk with Fernand, and then go to bed. ! God, bless 
 and protect me, and all those whom I love.' 
 
 ' Foligno, May 6th. 
 
 * I have a fit of enthusiasm about Italy ; this dear land, in 
 which I should like to spend my life. Foolish girl that I am, 
 always spoiling my existence with these castles in the air ! To- 
 day we breakfasted at Spoleto, having left Terni at six o'clock. 
 The road was too beantiful. The mountains covered with ver- 
 dure, and flowers everywhere. Our journey is like a pilgrimage. 
 We prayed in four different churches to-day, and this evening 
 had Benediction in the Cathedral, which is rather a fine one. 
 After dinner I went out and sang with Fernand. Dear, kind 
 Fernand, I so much love him ! Afterwards we had tea, and I 
 read Father Geramb's work. It is very interesting. I should 
 like to go to Jerusalem. I am tired to death, or I would 
 describe our walk. We talked about happiness. I am sure 
 there must be some kind of happiness in this world. How can 
 one have a doubt about it, especially in travelHng, in looking, as 
 we are now doing, on this lovely earth ? ' 
 
 ' Tolentino, May 7th. 
 
 * A tiresome and tiring journey. The winding road never 
 gets out of the mountains, and at each fresh turning another 
 mountain is seen. A bad dinner at the inn, but the people who 
 keep it were very good-natured. I walked with Mamma and 
 Fernand. We talked of natural and supernatural fears. Fernand 
 said he believed in intermediate beings, and so do I, if he means 
 the Angels. We went to the Cathedral, where the body of S. 
 Nicholas of Tolentino is preserved.' 
 
 * Goritz, May 12th. 
 
 * We have arrived. I wrote nothing at Loreto, Ancona, or 
 Trieste. I do not care about the two last, but I had many 
 things to say about Loreto. I have seen my aunt and cousins 
 de Blacas again.* My aunt is very kind, and I love her so 
 much. To-day we went to see the King and Queen.f ! Ma- 
 donna mia, how frightened I was ! And yet they were not the least 
 terrible. The King was exceedingly kind, and though the Queen 
 is more formidable, she was just as good-natured. Mademoiselle;]; 
 is charming, and I am sure I shall be very fond of her. We 
 
 * The Due de Blacas had died the preceding- spring in the same place where 
 Charles X. had breathed his last. The faithful and devoted servant of fallen 
 majesty lies buried at the feet of his Eoyal master. 
 
 t Since the death of Charles X. this title was given to the Dauphin. 
 
 X The Comte de Chambord's sister. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 are to dine there this evening. I hope I shall not be so 
 frightened. I want only to be good, and to let God do with me 
 what he pleases. I have been so delighted with all I have seen 
 from Rome to Ancona. This is the country to be happy in.' 
 
 ' May 14th. 
 
 * My aunt has been so kind as to pnt a piano in onr room, so 
 that I have been playing part of the morning. I have not 
 brought any music, but I remembered by heart a duet out of the 
 GiuramentOjWith. all the accompaniment, and I sang it with Fernand. 
 I also made out several other accompaniments, which I was not 
 a little proud of. To-day there is a soiree at the Palace. Every 
 Thursday and Sunday they are at home to all the society of 
 Goritz. This society looks very respectable, but they are not a 
 very pretty set of people. The Cs. and As. are nearly the 
 only families, but they have branches and sprigs without end. 
 Mademoiselle is really charming, and has been most kind and 
 gracious to me. I am quite captivated with her.' 
 
 * May 15th. 
 
 * I went out driving with Mademoiselle, who came to fetch 
 me in a frightful caleche, with Mme. de G., to whom I talked a 
 great deal. Then we walked. Mademoiselle is a most enchant- 
 ing little princess. I talk a little more now, and do not despair 
 of becoming in time quite conversable.' 
 
 ' May 16th. 
 
 * To-day to Grafenberg, a sort of little chateau where King 
 Charles X. died. Mamma walked on before my aunt, and I was 
 behind with * * *. I can venture to assert that I carried on 
 the whole conversation, and am really improving. In the 
 evening we dined with the King * * *. The Duchess de 
 Gontaut arrived and took my place next Mademoiselle, which 
 put me out, for I quite worship her.' 
 
 ^ 'May 17th. 
 
 ' This evening, at the King's, there were more visitors from 
 Goritz, and several pretty women. As we could not work on 
 Sunday, we played at cards. It was onze-et-demi, and I lost. 
 Mademoiselle looked very pretty with natural flowers in her hair. 
 At half-past eight, the Queen gets up and dismisses the company, 
 and then sits down again with the select few till nine, when 
 everybody goes away. Mademoiselle told me that she always 
 goes to bed at half-past nine and gets up at six. Nine hours of 
 sleep — that is pretty well. Poor princes ! They have not a very 
 gay life of it. In the evening they sit at work at a round table, 
 and Mademoiselle often yawns. She told me how they spent 
 their time when her brother was away, and she was alone with 
 
301 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 her uncle and aunt and Mme. de G. She said it was very dull. 
 Indeed, I should think so ; it must be worse than Boury, when 
 there is no one there but me to keep up the conversation. Though 
 I am sometimes tired of Boury, and have intensely wished to 
 travel a little, I never was unhappy at home. On the contrary, 
 I had delightful times of tranquillity and peace, which I think 
 cannot be enjoyed unless one leads a regular life, and especially 
 if we are surrounded by a large family, and as charming a one 
 as my own. A monotonous life is by no means a tiresome one. 
 Still one feels the want of some change now and then. My Hfe, 
 such as I plan it, would be delightful ! ' 
 
 'May 23rd. 
 ' I drove and walked to-day with Mademoiselle. As we were 
 going to the Strasaldo she gave me a pretty little parasol. I do 
 not think there has ever been — no, not even in a fairy tale — a 
 more charming princess. I stayed with her a long time. She 
 played on the harp and I sang. We got up at five o'clock in the 
 morning to take leave of the Queen. We, that is my mother, 
 Stanislaus and Ohvier, drove to S. Maur, my aunt's country 
 house, with her. It is a charming place ; but these walks are 
 always a real cross to me on account of my eyes. I am told not 
 to speak of it to everybody, which I should like to do, as an 
 excuse for my awkwardness, and the blunders I make on these 
 occasions. I cannot say a word, for I do not know what to 
 answer, when I am asked what I think of the views. ! my 
 God, it is indeed a cross, and I trust that it is reckoned as one in 
 Thy sight. I offer it up to Thee, no doubt, but I cannot say it is 
 a welcome one, or that I should not be very glad not to have it.' 
 
 ' May 24th. 
 ' The Queen and Mademoiselle went away this morning for a 
 few days, which vexed me, for I should like to have seen much 
 more of the Princess. I have read over what I wrote yesterday 
 in my Journal, and thought it dreadfully silly ; and then, unfor- 
 tunately, it came in Mamma's way, who thought so too. I really 
 will not write any more what comes into my head, for it seems so 
 foolish when I read it again. I will give up castle-building, and 
 leave everything to God, which is not very meritorious, for I wish 
 for nothing — not even what I thought I wished for yesterday. It 
 has thrown cold water on all my schemes to find that Mamma 
 thought them silly. However, lascia'nio fare a Dio. Imaginative 
 feelings are always very absurd. I will not write any more, and 
 will think as httle as possible of those sort of things. Yesterday, 
 however, I wanted very much to go to Milan with Mademoiselle, 
 and began castle-building again.' 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 395 
 
 ' May 30th. 
 * At five o'clock this morning I went with Fernand, Stanislaus, 
 and OHvier to the Holy Mountain, which is a pilgrimage in the 
 neighbourhood. The view from it is beautiful, but as usual, my 
 pleasure was quite spoilt by my blindness, and also a little by my 
 stupidity. Others would haveenUvened this sort of expeditions 
 by their cheerfulness and gaiety, but I always feel that every- 
 body must be bored to death with me. This too, at least in part, 
 proceeds, I think, from my blindness, for if I could see, I should 
 find a great many more topics of conversation ; as it is, I rack 
 my mind for a word to say, and do not succeed after all. Then 
 I am vexed, and should like to cry, which makes me think that 
 I ought to live always as I do now, in a large happy family, or in 
 a united and affectionate home, where I am not the only one to 
 carry on the conversation.' 
 
 'May 31st. 
 ' A general departure. The King started at twelve o'clock with 
 Louis, and we at once for Trieste.' 
 
 * Sulmona, June 5th. 
 
 * A detestable inn. Fernand and I were both quite out of 
 temper, but it is impossible ever to get a single complaint out of 
 Mamma. I was almost provoked with her patience, and kept 
 telling her the most dreadful things about the dirt of the place, 
 notwithstanding which this dear mother only observed that the 
 town was full of curious old remains, and she would go out and 
 see them and learn their history, whilst I, who usually Kke these 
 things so much, was so angry about our beds and dinner that 
 I could not look at anything.' 
 
 •Naples, June 6th, 1840. 
 
 * With what delight I write the date of this place ! What a 
 long journey we have had. We stopped at a dreadful inn where 
 we could not stay to sleep, but travelled on all through the night. 
 Fernand told me that suspicious persons had been seen in the 
 house, and that we might very likely be robbed. We did not 
 tell my mother, but for a long time fear kept me awake, I was 
 getting by heart a speech I intended to make to the brigands, 
 and was determined to show great presence of mind, but nothing 
 came of it. I began to doze involuntarily, and at last gave up 
 struggling to keep awake, and only opened my eyes at Capua, 
 where we had to wait till the gates were unlocked. At nine we 
 arrived at Naples, and were up the stairs and in my father's 
 room before he had heard any noise.' 
 
396 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 During the time which elapsed between my mother's re- 
 turn and my departure from Naples, Alexandrine wished to 
 revisit with me all the places in the neighbourhood in any way 
 connected with the past. We went therefore to Castellamare, 
 Sorrento, to the Vomero, and also to the Villa Trecase, where my 
 family had lived for some time, and the road which led to the 
 house where she had been with her mother ; the garden, the 
 terrace, the church, the very spot near the Floridiana, where 
 Albert had said, ' I love you,' and the Villa Pletracatella, where 
 she had spent the most enchanting part of her life. But ! how 
 different it all looked to us now ! As to the other places I have 
 named, neither youth nor love could add anything to their natural 
 beauty, which outstrips imagination itself; but it was not the 
 case in this instance. That particular villa had been chosen at 
 the time Madame d'Alopeus had settled there, purposely to avoid 
 the sea-breezes, and was so situated that it was only by getting 
 up to the roof that the bay and the mountains beyond could be 
 perceived. It was surrounded by a melancholy garden, which 
 effectually hid all the view, and little could be seen from it but 
 the unspeakable beauty of the sky, and the graceful outline of a 
 few pines, just opposite to what had been Alexandrine's window. 
 When we saw it again, in an uninhabited state, the deserted house 
 looked most dreary, and everything about it was decayed and 
 gone to wreck, like the happiness of which it had once been the 
 scene. ^ And this is the place, ^ exclaimed Alexandrine, ' w^ere J 
 w(is so happy ! It was actually here that I thought life and this 
 world were too beautiful P 
 
 Ah ! how many thoughts this sad pilgrimage suggested to us 
 both. We were still young, and for one of us life seemed already 
 ended, and nothing remained of the happiness dreamt of, and 
 afterwards realized beyond all hope, amid these scenes, but a 
 sorrow as great as that happiness, and lasting as life itself. 
 And that life yet promised to be a long one. Alongside of all 
 this sadness, we had, as I must hasten to say, the comfort of the 
 Abbe Gerbet's consoling and strengthening words. He had 
 accompanied us on our pilgrimage, and well did he know how to 
 raise up with a firm and strong hand the bruised and aching 
 soul ; how to divest memory of its sharpest thorns, and make it 
 serve as the means to strengthen faith in the Unseen, and awaken 
 hope in its undying realities. Blessed through all Eternity will 
 be the words which in that hour and at so many other times, fell 
 from his hps into the depths of our hearts ! 
 
 Towards the end of July I left Naples with my husband, and 
 my father went with us to the steamboat, which was just ready 
 to start. They hurried us on board without permitting my 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 397 
 
 father to follow, but as there was afterwards a few minutes' 
 delay, I ran down the ladder before they could prevent me, and 
 embraced him once more. It was for the last time in this 
 world \ Having gone on board again, I followed with my eyes 
 the little boat nearing the shore, and stood looking at my beloved 
 father and kissing my hand to him, till the steamer left the 
 harbour and carried me away from him for ever ! 
 
 This farewell, now so sorrowfully remembered, is not the only 
 sad recollection of that summer, for we were beginning to feel 
 uneasy at the unsatisfactory accounts of Eugenie's health, 
 though in a great measure comforted by the hope that the birth 
 of her second child would put an end to her ailments. Looking 
 back to it now, that anxiety seems like the little cloud which 
 rises up and spreads over the whole sky, casting a foreboding 
 shadow even upon the pale gleam of sunshine which preceded its 
 coming. 
 
 When we reached Brussels, I left my husband to arrange 
 everything about our new home, and hurried on myself to 
 Lumigny, where I was expected with more than usual im- 
 patience. I was also most anxious to see Eugenie again, and at 
 the first moment I felt nothing but pleasure, for she appeared to 
 me to be quite well. I soon, however, perceived a change which 
 surprised me. For the first time I saw clouds passing over her 
 soul, and her mind, which was usually so simple and bright, was 
 now full of exaggerated and imaginary troubles. For the first 
 time in my life, in short, I found her out of spirits, and this 
 deeply affected me. 
 
 Up to that time, notwithstanding her serious habits of thought, 
 and the deeply religious tone of her mind, and though she was 
 often and willingly silent, nothing could be more foreign to her 
 character than sadness. These words of Lamartine seemed to 
 have been made for her :— 
 
 ' Sa voix argentine, 
 Echo limpide et pur de son jime enfantine, 
 Musique de cette ame ou tout semblait chanter 
 Egayait jusqu'4 I'air qui I'entendait monter !' * 
 
 Truly were her voice and her soul joyous, and had continued 
 to be so even when the sorrows she had undergone and shared 
 had at an early age disenchanted life. But now the trial of 
 
 * ' Her silvery voice, 
 Pure and transparent echo of her childlike soul, 
 Music of that soul where everything seemed to sing, 
 Cheered the very air which heard it ascend.' 
 
 Lamartine' s Harmonies. 
 
398 A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 despondency and angnish had come upon my sister, and those 
 who are versed in the history of chosen sonls, and who know 
 what spiritual riches lie hidden in suffering and humiliation, will 
 not be surprised at what she had to go through. But I was 
 both pained and astonished at this change, and did everything I 
 could to enliven and rouse her, and especially to reason her out 
 of that excessive and morbid diffidence, which was the only real 
 trouble they had. She tormented herself really and truly about 
 what she called her want of cleverness, liveliness, or talent for 
 conversation, but it would be difficult to imagine how unhappy 
 it made her. At this time of her life the singular and charming 
 modesty for which she had been always remarkable, had become 
 a misfortune, and almost a fault ; or, at any rate, a weakness 
 which ill-health aggravated and turned into a suffering. 
 
 It used to make me cry and laugh at the same time to see my 
 darling Eugenie, who seemed to me so bright, so intelligent, so 
 fall of earnest and deep thoughts, and whose natural gaiety was 
 so exuberant that she had been often obliged to check her inclina- 
 tion to view things and people in a ridiculous light, and to 
 restrain the exercise of her talent for mimicry — to see her, I say, 
 reproaching herself with being stupid, tiresome, and useless, and 
 that with a grief and a bitterness which may have aggravated 
 the state of suffering which no doubt was the original cause of 
 this depression. 
 
 Whilst I was staying at Lumigny, those of my family whom I 
 had left behind in Italy went from Naples to the Villa Cittadella, 
 near Lucca, the same in which we had spent the summer of 1829. 
 There the following pages of Olga's Journal were written. They 
 are curious as a contrast between her thoughts of Eugenie and 
 Eugenie's opinion of herself. 
 
 olga's journal. 
 
 ' Lucca, Villa Cittadella, September 9tli, 1840. 
 * We heard this morning from Pauline. Eugenie has not been 
 well, and the excitement of Pauline's arrival did her harm, but, 
 thank God ! she is better. Not a word from herself for me 
 to-day, but that is natural, for Pauline was there, and she was 
 ill ; but in thinking of the questions she would put to Pauline 
 about us all, I fancied I should be the last she would ask about. I 
 am afraid she does not love me as much as she used sometimes to 
 say she did. I shall never forget the pleasuro it gave me. I 
 love her so very much ! I am jealous of her loving and 
 of her being obliged to love so many others better than me. 
 Adrian, Pauline, Alexandrine, all come before me, and I love her 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 perhaps as mucli as all of tliem put together. I think she is of 
 all people in the world the one I would rather be alone with. I 
 said to Euphemie, who repeated one day some little criticism that 
 had been made upon Eugenie, that if I heard that, or anything 
 else said that was like to blame her, I should be ready to fight 
 the person who said it. Though I am so very fond of her, and 
 I have always been fonder of her, I think, than of the others, she 
 frightens me sometimes, and I have not felt quite at my ease with 
 her. When I said just now that she was the person I liked best 
 to be alone with, and I do feel it, because I should wish to have 
 her quite to myself, I stopped to consider whether I should really 
 not rather have one of my friends with whom I am quite at my 
 ease, and over whom I have a kind of authority, for those dear 
 girls do exactly what I wish, and like everything that I do. But 
 I think not. I love my friends exceedingly : they are very good, 
 I often think better than I am, but my love for Eugenie is more 
 intense, and it is mixed with great admiration. I should like to 
 be always with her, and for her to guide me about everything as 
 she used to do. She always makes me better. She is like a 
 Saint or a Guardian Angel, protecting and advising me, and I 
 would rather live in submission to her than exercise a kind of 
 authority over my friends. This shows me that admiration and 
 respect are a necessary part of love, and that where there is the 
 highest respect and admiration, there will be the deepest love. 
 This ought to carry me yet further, and lead me to the conclusion 
 that it is a simple and natural thing to love God above all things, 
 as there are no bounds to the respect and admiration due to Him. 
 ' I love, admire, and reverence Eugenie.' 
 
 Alexandrine wrote to me from Cittadella on the subject of 
 Eugenie's low spirits, and the kind of trial she was enduring — a 
 letter which seems to me full of Christian wisdom : — 
 
 ' Villa CittadeUa, September 20th, 1840. 
 ' I have been thinking very much of your letter about Eugenie. 
 As you say, it is singular that such a trial should have been sent 
 to our beloved sister, though I see in it the hand of God, Who 
 will not let His chosen souls be exposed to the poison of self- 
 approval. Her beautiful humility will thus be more easily pre- 
 served. But it is remarkable that all the great qualities of her 
 soul and mind are apparently less useful where she is than the 
 trifling qualifications she does not possess would be. I can per- 
 fectly well understand her despondency, without of course approv- 
 ing of it. Our poor Eugenie ! Her special characteristics are a 
 (tender, joyous love of God, and great activity, and now she feels 
 
400 A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 that a little more talent for conversation on general matters, and 
 an aptitude for drawing out others in that way, would be of more 
 value to her than those higher gifts. This is certainly a Cross, 
 but it is sweetened by having a husband whom she loves and who 
 loves her, and a charming child. Are not these immense bless- 
 ings ? I know it is natural to wish for more than we possess, 
 even when we own we have more than others. We are in- 
 tended for the perfection of happiness, and this is why we are 
 never quite satisfied in this life, because happiness is never per- 
 fect. What truisms I am writing ! But this solitude makes me 
 meditative. Everything, you see, is judged of by comparison. 
 A king is poor with what makes another a rich man. You 
 used to picture to yourself the happiness of having a child like 
 hers ; and when that day at Albano you were speaking of this, 
 with tears in your eyes, I thought to myself how thoroughly 
 happy I should be if, like you, I had my husband still beside me. 
 And be sure, that even were that wish of yours fulfilled, other 
 things would be wanting, for which you would still be longing. 
 I do not know if you think this a consolation, but it is true. This 
 life is the Way of the Cross, and during this last week I have seen 
 many things which make me feel how useful Crosses are to the 
 soul, and which I am going to write to that dear, dear sister, for 
 they will do her good.' 
 
 Alexandrine left Lucca with my father and mother to go to 
 Pisa, and about the same time I left Lumigny to return to Brus- 
 sels. It was at that time that Alexandrine visited, among other 
 persons and places which old associations endeared to her, the 
 Franciscan Convent and Padre Galligani, and there had that 
 touching interview with Fra Clementine, which she has herself 
 related in her story. Very soon afterwards Alexandrine's stay 
 at Pisa was cut short by a sad event, which is spoken of in 
 Eugenie's next letters. 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Ltunigny, November 10th. 
 ' Have you heard the sad, terrible news which has just reached 
 us ? Mark Antony's wife* is dead. Ah ! what is this life, this world, 
 and its happiness ? Is it ever even possible to call oneself happy ? 
 And is not this daily expectation of the end of everything a living 
 death ? Dead ! when it was only the other day that you were 
 speaking of her beauty and strength, and telling me how quickly 
 she recovered the birth of her last child, and returned to Rome 
 the very picture of earthly happiness, to enjoy every blessing life 
 
 * The Princess Borghese. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 401 
 
 can give. And now it is all over ! As far as regards herself, it 
 if5 a well-known fact that, surrounded as she was by riches, she 
 had placed her real treasure in Heaven, and her works will follow 
 her; but that poor young husband, and his four little children — 
 what a house of mourning ! I feel quite crushed by this blow. 
 It was a sore throat she died of. ! it is almost a misfortune 
 to be happy in this world ! It makes one envy those who love 
 nothing, hope for nothing, and whose whole thoughts and heart 
 are set upon another world. I cannot think how we can be at 
 peace for a single hour. How do I know for certain that you are 
 not dead ? That Adrian will come back alive from hunting ? 
 That I shall ever see Mamma again ? ! may God teach us to 
 love only Him, and to be always ready to give up life, and to go 
 back to Him ! Good-bye. Ah ! Pauline, let us live on, but so Uve 
 as if we were dead. Let us love our dear ones for the sake of 
 their souls only, and that we may see them again in Heaven. This 
 world is far too sad to set one's heart upon.' 
 
 * November 12th. 
 
 * It seems that the Princess was breakfasting with her 
 husband, and was suddenly suffocated, while complaining only of 
 a slight sore throat.* Poor, beautiful young creature ! But as you 
 say, if we have faith we ought not to pity her, and though we 
 never have enough faith, still the little we possess ought to 
 relieve us in this case of all dread of such a sudden death. 
 Everything you say of the Princess leads one to suppose that 
 her constant habits of prayer, and frequent Communion, her 
 continual practice of good works, and the holy thoughts habitual 
 to her mind, must have kept her soul in readiness to die at any 
 moment. I have the strongest belief that God never recalls a 
 soul pleasing to Him in an unprovided state, though it may be a 
 sudden manner. To such a soul as hers, He would certainly 
 grant time for preparation, or if He does not do so, it seems to 
 me a proof that it was fit to go, and that in mercy He spared it 
 the agony and temptations of the last struggle. The thought of 
 this young creature's departed soul is to me full of peace ! 
 What radiant happiness she is perhaps enjoying now ! Com- 
 pared with that, her brilliant life on earth appears gloomy 
 indeed.' 
 
 ' Lumigny, January 6th, 1841. 
 
 * A letter from Rome, from M. Esbelin, gives us at last all the 
 details of the death of the beautiful young Saint. The day 
 after a fete at the Villa Borghese, she caught cold, and com- 
 
 * This was a mistake, but Eugenie's reflections upon it are dear to me, on 
 account of their having proved applicable to her own case. 
 
 2 D 
 
A SISTERS STORY. 
 
 plained of a sore throat. Having been ill all the day, she was a 
 little better in the evening, and the next morning she did not 
 suffer at all. She was quite cheerful, and jested about her 
 health. This was at eight o'clock. At ten the doctors came to 
 examine her throat, and saw, to their horror, that mortification 
 had begun, and that death was inevitable. They broke it to the 
 poor young wife and the unhappy husband, who refused to 
 believe it. At eleven o'clock Pere Rozaven was sent for. Quite 
 resigned, and not suffering at all, she took leave of her husband, 
 and died at twelve o'clock without either pain or struggle. Does 
 not this sort of death seem almost impossible to realize ? But 
 though there is something terrible about it for the survivors, and 
 also as to the sacrifice the dying one had to make, I cannot but 
 think there is great beauty in the tranquil departure of so pure 
 a soul. It seemed to the bystanders as if they could almost see 
 the Angels carrying her gently to the Feet of Grod, Whom she 
 had so loved and served. His Presence must have been felt in 
 that last peaceful moment. 
 
 ' The accounts of the grief of all Rome are not at all exagge- 
 rated. Fifty young men drew the funeral car to Santa Maria 
 Maggiore, and the whole way along the road, garlands and 
 flowers were thrown from the windows. It was more like a 
 triumph than a funeral. The people who followed the car 
 blocked up the streets, calling the young Princess by the 
 tenderest names. The general feelings of grief called forth 
 by her death are a touching homage paid to that young life, so 
 full of good works. When, afterwards, Mark Antony asked the 
 names of the young men who had drawn the car, one of them 
 made this answer — '* Tell Mm that it was the Romans. ^^ Since 
 that day, she appears in a thousand different ways to that people 
 so full of faith and poetry ; some have seen her taking her flight 
 to Heaven in a white radiant form ; and again she comes robed 
 in light, to help and comfort the suffering. Among the people, 
 dreams and apparitions are daily related about the Princess, 
 whom they call the Angel of Bome. The streets are full of 
 pictures of her, and verses are sung in her honour ; the whole 
 city is bent on erecting a monument to her memory, and a prize 
 is offered to whoever shall produce the best design. In short, 
 nothing can be more touching and remarkable than the sorrow of 
 a whole population for one private person. And it is very 
 honourable to her, for if through their wealth and position the 
 Borgheses are paramount in Rome, it is on account of her good 
 works that she is worshipped as a Saint, and it makes one love 
 the Roman people. Grood-bye, my dear sister ; I love you with 
 my whole heart. Pray for me. I am better than I was lasfc 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 403 
 
 week, but I am often ill. I have a continual pain in my back and 
 between my shoulders, and a very bad one in my side.' 
 
 ' Lumigny, January 30th, 1841. 
 
 * Auguste d'Ursel* left us last "Wednesday, and I must own to 
 you that I was more out of spirits than ever while he was here. 
 He will tell you so, and he will complain that he did not hear 
 me sing, except in the chapel. I do not know if he is very fond 
 of music ; however, in any case I should like to have given 
 him pleasure, but the day I was asked to sing for him, I was 
 very unwell. Femand was not here to sing a duet, I knew 
 nothing I could sing alone, and I felt like the girl in the Demoi' 
 selle a marier^ that I should cry if I opened my lips. I was not 
 greatly pressed, and I felt as if they must have thought me 
 cross, and that you would scold me. I wanted to tell you this, 
 in case that good Auguste tells tales of me. He will not now 
 have the pleasure of astonishing you. Adrian is gone to Paris 
 with him, and I am ashamed of finding it so difficult to get 
 through a week without him. I really am an intolerable goose. 
 Ah ! I do hope God will forgive me. I have so many, many 
 times reproached myself for these fits of despondency, and been 
 so sorry for them, that I hope now really to amend, and to be 
 very different when I get up from this bed, where I shall offer 
 up to God in expiation for my faults, all the pain He may choose 
 to send me.' 
 
 * Lumigny, February IStli, 1841. 
 
 * For three days Adrian and I have been alone together. It is 
 the first time since our marriage that this has been the case, and 
 we reproach ourselves for finding it delightful. I suppose it is 
 natural to like a little variety. Probably if we had spent one or 
 two years in this way we should want to see people here ; but as 
 the pleasure of being alone and independent is what we have 
 known least since we were married, we have wished for it at 
 times ; and, in short, these four or five days have been charming. 
 To complete our enjoyment, the weather is magnificent ; a 
 perfect spring, mild and warm, so that I am writing with the 
 window open. The soft air does my body as much good as our 
 tete-d-tete does to my mind, and I feel a calm, a peace, and well- 
 heing that I have not experienced for a long time.' 
 
 ' February 26th. 
 ' Shall I see you in three weeks ? I do not believe it — I do 
 not let myself believe it. I had rather not reckon on so much 
 
 * Younger brother of the Duo d'Ursel, and first cousin to Adrian. 
 
 2 D 2 
 
404 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 happiness. You will find our child* grown very pretty, and 
 saying more words than he did in September ; and there will be 
 another, if God spares me to see it bom and alive. How strange 
 that I should have actually two children of my own ! Dear, 
 pretty little darling, your letter puts me into foolish spirits, into 
 that state in which one feels inclined to talk a great deal with- 
 out ha\'ing anything to say. You will find me, I hope, beginning 
 to sit up, and it will he deHghtful to have you with me while I 
 am recovering. Good-bye. Give Augustus a kiss for me, and a 
 most affectionate one, for this blessed thought of sending you 
 here was his own idea. How glad I should be to see him again, 
 to show Robertf to him, and to see them become " a pair of 
 friends." We four might spend, I can tell you, some jpiace- 
 volissimi days in Paris. Good-bye, you dear, good, very good 
 little people, Adrian is almost as glad as I am at your charming 
 plan. He says qtdte as glad, but that I will not admit ; no other 
 gladness can come up to mine. His good parents, too, were 
 delighted on learning the news when they came home.' 
 
 I did go to Lumigny a little while afterwards; but before 
 I speak of the meeting with Eugenie, I must relate what had 
 happened in the meanwhile to Alexandrine. I must be brief, 
 for, alas ! melancholy events crowd upon me so sadly at this 
 point of my story, that on many of them I cannot dwell. 
 
 Alexandrine was, as I have said, at Pisa when the news of 
 the sudden death of the young Princess Borghese reached her ; 
 and in the first moment of that terrible catastrophe, those 
 most deeply afiected by it very much wished her to go to them 
 at Rome. It seemed to Prince Borghese and his mother that 
 she would be a great comfort to them, and that one who had 
 suffered so much herself would enter into their feelings and 
 soothe their griefs better than any one else. Alexandrine 
 accordingly complied with their request, and remained with them 
 in the Palazzo Borghese until my father and mother went to 
 Rome in February. Their plan then, and Alexandrine's also, 
 was to return to France immediately after Easter, but unforeseen 
 events caused a change in all their arrangements. In the early 
 part of the spring, Alexandrine had gone to the Convent of the 
 Trinita da Monte, to make her Retreat, and had been there three 
 days when she received a letter summoning her to the bedside of 
 
 * Eugenie used to like to call her eldest son our child. She often said to me, 
 ' It seems impossible that what so entirely belongs to me should not belong to 
 you also.' 
 
 t Eugenie's eldest child. 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 405 
 
 her eldest brother, Count Alexander d'Alopeus. He had lately- 
 been transferred from the legation at the Hague to Turin, and 
 having been attacked with pleurisy, was then lying at the point 
 of death. There was not a moment to be lost if she wished to 
 see him again, and she accordingly left Rome at eleven o'clock 
 that same night for Civita Yecchia. But she had not travelled 
 far when a dreadful storm frightened the horses ; her carriage 
 was broken to pieces, and in wind, rain, and darkness she had to 
 make her way on foot to a farm belonging to a Roman nobleman, 
 where she was hospitably entertained while another conveyance 
 was sent for. In spite of delays and of all the incidents of this 
 dreadftd journey, she reached Turin in time to see and embrace 
 her brother once more, but could give him no other consolation 
 than her tender care during the remainder of his short and fatal 
 illness. After this new trouble, which was embittered to her by 
 many additional circumstances, Alexandrine had no other thought 
 or desire than to see her mother. The Prince and Princess 
 Lapoukhyn were then on their way to Italy, and Alexandrine 
 met her poor mother at Vienna just as the news of her son's 
 death reached her. As may be imagined, Alexandrine could not 
 think of leaving her again, and after a short stay in Germany 
 they went on to Rome, which my father and mother were on the 
 point of leaving for France. But on account of a change of 
 circumstances at Lumigny and in Paris, this plan was given up. 
 
 Eugenie had been safely confined in March of another boy, 
 and a few weeks afterwards I reached Lumigny, hoping to find 
 her entirely recovered. Instead of this, she seemed to me weaker 
 and paler than she ought to have been, and our meeting was a 
 Bad one, for it was the first time that a shade of definite fear 
 took the place of those vague anxieties I had hitherto felt. But 
 I would not for a moment entertain the painful thought. I found 
 a thousand good reasons to account for her mental and physical 
 prostration, and I flattered myself with the hope that our stay 
 together in Paris would quite restore her strength. The idea of 
 being there together in the same house and in the spring-time 
 was the fulfilment of a long- cherished desire. We looked forward 
 to it as to a holiday and a festival. But these kind of joys were 
 over for us in this world. At Paris she was seriously ill, and 
 during our stay there the terror I had fought against at Lumigny 
 rushed again upon me, and I could only compare it to the tooth 
 of some wild beast eating into my heart. I struggled to over- 
 come it, and the remembrance of that struggle fills me yet with 
 greater anguish than even the thought of the final sorrow that 
 followed. Yet, whenever this terrible fear loosened its hold of 
 my heart, I began to hope again. Eugenie did, indeed, suddenly 
 
406 A SISTEE'S ST0R7. 
 
 get better. The doctor decided that she must go to Italy with 
 her husband, and my father and mother then determined to 
 remain in that country. Either the pleasure of this prospect, or 
 one of those changes so frequent in her deceitful malady, wrought 
 such an improvement that the hope of her recovery became 
 almost a certainty. 
 
 It was now the middle of May, and as Eugenie was to set out 
 at the beginning of June, I went to stay at Lumigny during the 
 intervening time. Her strength seemed revived, her face had 
 recovered its look of health, and I felt completely reassured ; and 
 peaceful and happy indeed were those last days, the last we were 
 ever to spend together. God willed that all fears should pass 
 away from me for a while, and that before losing her for ever, 
 I should once more enjoy, to the full, the blessedness of our per- 
 fect friendship. The weather was beautiful, and we spent long 
 hours together in the garden. I particularly remember two 
 conversations in which Eugenie seemed to me to have recovered 
 all her old gaiety, freedom of mind, and sunshine of heart. One 
 of these was among the rose-beds on the right side of the chateau, 
 where we were talking and making up huge bouquets of roses. 
 The other, as we were sitting on a garden- seat at the bottom of 
 the lawn with the two children, one playing on the grass, and 
 the other asleep in its cradle. Eugenie looked at the baby with 
 loving sadness, for she was to leave him behind. They were to 
 go the next day but one, and Robert only was to go with them. 
 
 The day came, the 16th of June, which was the last, though 
 we knew it not, of our perfect happiness on earth. For the last 
 time we looked into each other's faces, for the last time heard 
 each other's voices, and said to each other our last words. Was 
 it better not to have known it ? Ah ! yes, there can be no doubt 
 that it was thus mercifully ordained. 
 
 At midnight I left her to return to Brussels, and they started 
 the following morning for Italy. I find these words in my Jour- 
 nal : ' Eugenie and I went to Communion this morning with the 
 intention of gaining a blessing on both our journeys, and that 
 God might soon restore us to one another. This evening, at 
 Benediction, we prayed very earnestly for those who are to start 
 to-morrow, and for those also who remain behind. Once again 
 in my room we prayed together. May God watch over her ! ' 
 
 After Benediction, prayers, and the evening in the drawing- 
 room were over, we went up to her room to talk and pray again, 
 and then parted in quite a different manner than in the preceding 
 September. We were sitting close together, and I said to 
 Eugenie : ' There now, this time we will have no tears We 
 will not be sorrowful, for this parting is not at all like what have 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 407 
 
 gone before. We are both going away, and are both glad to go 
 where we are going.' Then we kissed each other without much 
 sadness, though our tears fell fast in spite of ourselves. Fernand, 
 who was to be my companion, came in to say that it was nearly 
 twelve o'clock, and time to start. Ah ! how I remember every 
 moment of that evening ! We went to the nursery to kiss the 
 sleeping children, and then returned to the drawing-room, where 
 Mons. and Mme. de Mun were waiting to bid me good-bye. 
 Eugenie led me to the door on the stairs, and was told not to go 
 further on account of the night air. We both stopped, and I 
 gave her my last kiss. ! it was a very tender one. It could 
 not, I think, have been more tender had I known what that 
 moment really was for us both. She clasped me in her arms 
 with an intense affection which nothing could have increased, 
 and they were obliged to draw me away. I looked at her once 
 again at the comer of the staircase, and after that I saw her no 
 more. Adrian put me into the carriage, bade me good-bye, and 
 heard me say twice over, ' May Grod bless you both ! ' 
 
 On that night, when I last saw Eugenie, she wore a silk gown 
 with a white scarf. Her hair had been cut off the year before, 
 and was short and curling round her head. There was not then 
 about her a trace of suffering or sickness. That very same day 
 the year after, in the same house, I saw her children in deep 
 mourning for her. 
 
 * ^ :# # # 
 
 Eugenie joined my father and mother at the Yilla Buonovisi, 
 near Lucca, where she spent the summer and autumn, and there 
 Alexandrine, who was at Florence with her mother, came and 
 spent several weeks with them. Mons. and Mme. Theodore de 
 Bussiere also formed part of their circle of friends, and it was 
 soon increased by the arrival of Fernand and his young wife.* 
 
 During this time Eugenie's letters sometimes expressed plea- 
 sure at the revival of her strength, sometimes a return of that 
 depression of spirits which had been the first and fatal symptom 
 of her illness. It was only for a short time at Rome, where she 
 arrived towards the end of October, that she found any real 
 relief from it. 
 
 EUGENIE TO PAULINE. 
 
 'Eome, November 4th, 1841. 
 
 * Dearest Sister of my whole life, — It has been wrong of me 
 not to write to you since our arrival here. I will not excuse 
 
 * Mdlle. Marie Gibert, whom Fernand married after Eugenie's departure. 
 
408 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 myself by recounting the troubles of onr first days here, but will 
 at once go back to Florence, where I left Alexandrine. How 
 sorry I was to part with her ! She is glad to be with her mother, 
 but she would be very lonely in that gay place if she had not 
 God in her heart, and Angels always about her. She has pretty 
 rooms — three bright little cells, well-furnished, and full of flowers, 
 and there she has four hours every day to herself. But it is not 
 very easy for her to go out at the time of Benediction, or to visit 
 the poor. She cried a good deal at parting, and it is sad to be 
 so near her and not with her. But she will come here for Lent, 
 and the Princess and good Prince too. 
 
 ' And now I am at Rome, and I cannot say what an hourly 
 satisfaction it is to me. To be here in my present state of mind, 
 with means of seeing, understanding, and appreciating every- 
 thing in the best way possible, is an enjoyment I never weary of. 
 The Abbe Gerbet has done me so much good ! His encouraging 
 words, his kind firmness, have as usual worked wonders on my 
 soul. I feel roused, strengthened, and interested in everything — 
 younger than I have done for some time; and I think I am getting 
 out of my torpid state. ! I will obey him. I will make every- 
 thing I see and do here conduce to the increase of peace and joy 
 in God to freedom and openness of soul. I have seen nothing 
 but S. Peter's as yet, and I was much struck with the truth of 
 what the Abbe Gerbet says in his book* of the sort of triumphant 
 feeling this wonderful church inspires. In Gothic churches our 
 first impulse is to kneel and bow down in humble prayer and 
 deep contrition, while in S. Peter's, on the contrary, the spon- 
 taneous feeling is to open our arms wide with joy, and to look up 
 to Heaven with rapturous enthusiasm. Sin does not seem to 
 crush us there. A consciousness of forgiveness through the 
 triumph of the Resurrection fills the whole soul. Think what it 
 will be to see the churches, the catacombs again, &c., with the 
 Abbe, whom these holy places inspire with such wonderful 
 thoughts, and Theodore de Bussiere, who finds out a multitude 
 of interesting things with a view to the book he is writing, I think, 
 on the Seven Basilicas.' 
 
 • Eome, November 21st. 
 * I cannot tell you how much the life I am now leading delights me. 
 Why are you not here, my precious sister, who have shared all my 
 sorrows, complaints, stupidity, and ingratitude to God ? Would 
 you could now at least be gladdened by the bappy state of my 
 soul ! I seem to have come to life again, and I hope never to 
 sink back into apathy. You would not now be obliged to 
 
 * JEsquisse de Rome Chritienne. 
 
A SISTER'S 8T0B7. 409 
 
 begin twenty different subjects without being able to interest me 
 in any of them. I am taking to everything again, and like to 
 read, to hear, and to understand. Who knows even if I shall not 
 get to care about politics ? Ah ! Rome is a blessed city. 
 
 ' Father de Ravignan, who is here, is going to preach the Lent 
 sermons. Think how I shall enjoy them — I, who have never 
 heard a good sermon in my life. This morning, at the meeting of the 
 Enfants de Marie, at the Trinita da Monte, he gave us an admi- 
 rable instruction on devotedness to God and interior peace. ! 
 I felt that Divine peace fill my soul when he promised, when he 
 assured us that we must possess it because we were of "good 
 will." Certainly, in this place, more than any other, it is easy to 
 feel spiritual joy.' 
 
 'Rome, December 14th, 1841. 
 
 * How the time passes ! I am perfectly amazed to find it is 
 more than ten days since I wrote to you. I am never for one 
 moment bored, and I enjoy myself more and more at Rome. 
 Ah ! my dear friends, why are you not with us ? Would you 
 could hear Father de Ravignan's admirable sermons; how beauti- 
 fal, how wonderful they are, and what acts of faith and love they 
 compel one to make ! Remember what a privation it has been to 
 me to be so long deprived of spiritual food ; and then, fancy what 
 it must be to be here ! My soul is refreshed ; my feelings on 
 every subject seem to revive ; and you know how dull they had 
 grown. May God be blessed and thanked for having allowed me 
 this happiness, and given me this grace. May I profit by it ; and, 
 above all, never again in future fall back into that languid apathy. 
 Those Lent sermons do an immense good, and have brought about 
 a Christian reaction among the pupils of the Academy, to whom 
 they are specially addressed. Many Protestants go to hear them 
 also, and several of them have been much struck. Father de 
 Ravignan addressed them particularly the other day, and, with 
 deep feeling, deplored their errors, earnestly beseeching them at 
 least to wish to know the truth ; I cannot but think they must 
 carry away some deep impressions. And indeed they do. E. de 
 G. is quite changed ; the influence of Rome acts upon him, and 
 I think he will go away a practical Catholic. His wife has a 
 delightful mind, which naturally inclines to everything holy and 
 good. I am in all the excitement of expecting Adrian, who must. 
 have set out yesterday.* I wonder if he has actually done so ? 
 I wish my good Angel would tell me. It is a real suffering some- 
 times to be without news. Alex writes to me that she is quite 
 
 * He had gone to Lumigny for two months. 
 
410 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 well, and that she sees a good deal of Mdlle. de Fauveau, who 
 likes and admires her immensely. 
 
 ' Olga is charming, and in great beauty. Robert gets strong, 
 and I am not ill ; I cough very little, and I look well. May God 
 and His Angels watch over you ! I send you all the blessings of 
 the Holy City.' 
 
 * January 11th, 1842. 
 
 * You can judge from my last letter how much good my Retreat 
 has done me. On the last day, almost every one who had attended 
 it went to Communion, young and old, men and women. A more 
 edifying sight could not be seen. Each one of us looks upon 
 Father de Ravignan as a friend. He came to bid us good-bye, 
 and to give us his blessing : everybody was in tears. 
 
 'Adrian got here on the 31st December, and all my time has 
 since been taken up ; this is why I have not written. Then I 
 fell ill again ; had more fever and oppression on the chest, and 
 coughed a little more. To-day I am so much better that I am 
 going to a great dinner at the Palazza Borghese, in honour of 
 the new Cardinals. Poor Mamma cannot go, she is suflfering from 
 erysipelas, and is obhged to keep her bed. She is not very ill, 
 but her face is much swelled, and she must be careful. I will 
 write again, the day after to-morrow, to say how she is. If there 
 is anything you want to know, ask me, for I am often bewildered, 
 and do not know at times what I have said and have not said. 
 You must forgive it, dearest sister; may God grant us soon to 
 meet again. Can we be said to live, and to lead a happy life, 
 when we are separated from half of those we love ? This world 
 is what we were told it would be on the day of the first sin ; w^e 
 mourn, we weep, we are ever craving for a change. ! after all 
 this suffering, Heaven will be very sweet ! ' 
 
 'January 13th. 
 
 * Mamma is better, and is up to-day, but we have all the trouble 
 in the world in getting her to take the least care of ber health. 
 As for myself, the weather is very damp, and I suffer from it. 
 It is tiresome to have been so much better, and to fall back just 
 when Adrian has come, so that he cannot see and enjoy that 
 great improvement which I boasted of in all my letters. How- 
 ever, these are the little clouds that must attend all earthly 
 happiness ; for a life without clouds, if any such there be, seems 
 to me a terrible and undesirable thino^.' 
 
 I am now come to a point in my story which I approach with 
 a kind of dread. Shall I pass over it swiftly, or shall I linger on 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 411 
 
 the sorrowful details ? I hardly know. God will guide my pen ; 
 and then, perhaps, together with the painful and terrible recol- 
 lections of the past, He will renew in my soul the consoling and 
 strengthening feelings which will facilitate my task. 
 
 Eugenie's last letter was dated January 13th. On the 17th, 
 five days afterwards, without any premonitory symptoms, with- 
 out any increase of his habitual ailments, my father was taken 
 suddenly ill, and in less than four hours he was dead. I have 
 nothing to add to the following letters : — 
 
 MADAME DE LA FEERONNATS TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Eome, January 21st, 1842. 
 
 ' What will become of you, my poor beloved Pauline : and how 
 will you bear the shock which my letter must give you ? This 
 anxiety increases my anguish. You will know, without my say- 
 ing it, how I miss you at this dreadful moment, the dread of 
 which has haunted me for nearly forty years. The idea took 
 possession of me as soon as I became his wife : " What if I were 
 to lose him ? " Every day of my life this has been my constant 
 thought. I have never for an hour felt secure, or lost sight of 
 this fear. Nothing but hope and trust in God could keep my 
 mind properly balanced, and I was only comforted by prayer. 
 On my knees I felt at peace, but never for long together. When 
 I saw him well with my own eyes, I was calm ; but sometimes, 
 perhaps only in going from one room to another, the anguish 
 returned. My heart was always beating, as if in terror of some- 
 thing ; and when the abyss at last opened before me, I had 
 measured its depths too surely not to take in at once its full 
 extent. Without deception, without that thought we so often 
 cling to — -that it may be all a dream — I felt the ground failing 
 under me. ! how little detachment from the world, or love 
 of God, or desire for Heaven, I had in comparison with him ! 
 He was the object of my life, and therefore I clung to earth. 
 Suffering was necessary to wean me from it. God has laid a 
 heavy Cross upon me ; I shall bear it, I hope, if only He gives me 
 strength.' 
 
 ' January 22nd. 
 
 * My beloved Child, — This is the first day in which there has been 
 nothing to do ; the painful duties of the previous ones brought 
 with them their own strength ; but to-day, everything is over. 
 May God, and the thought of my husband's happiness, fill up this 
 dreadful void ! 
 
 ' And now shall I be able to give you an account that will make 
 
412 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 you feel as if you had been with us all this time ? It is heart- 
 breaking, but it is better than silence, for it will be speaking of 
 him. A fortnight ago, my dearest husband had a little fever ; 
 the weather was bad, and snow had fallen, which happens so sel- 
 dom here, and our invalids both felt it. Eugenie had been very 
 unwell, and anxiety about her had taken up my thoughts. When 
 your father was better, I fell ill, and spent that last week in bed, 
 little thinking how it would end. In the meantime, he could not 
 restrain or control his religious zeal. He had visited the Seven 
 Churches alone, and ended by communicating at S. Peter's. And 
 there was I in bed — which so seldom happens — and could not 
 share all this with him ; nor could he bring himself to wait for 
 me. H6 told me that he would like to go to Com?nunion again 
 on the following Tuesday, the Feast of S. Peter's Chair, but that 
 he did not know if he should be able. He intended, I think, to 
 go to S. Peter's. He indeed communicated with God that day, 
 but it was in Heaven, not on earth. 
 
 ' On Sunday he was very well, and went to dine with the Dow- 
 ager Princess Borghese. He conversed nearly all the evening 
 with Theodore [de Bussiere] and the Abbe Dupanloup,* and 
 among other things spoke of the love he had felt all his life for 
 the Blessed Virgin. He looked upon it as the thread which had 
 kept him from perishing, and had finally brought him back to 
 God. Theodore told him of a Jew, a real enemy of Our Lord, whose 
 conversion he ardently desires. He is a brother of the Abbe Ratis- 
 bonne. This interested your father exceedingly. He talked also 
 about death, and your dearest father said that we must always be 
 ready, for we never knew when the hour would come. After- 
 wards he spoke lovingly of God, so rightly called our good 
 God,t he said. When he came home, he told me with envy, of all 
 the good that Bussiere is doing, and said, sorrowfully, " And I 
 do nothing at all ! " 
 
 ' On Monday the weather was magnificent. He went to Mass, 
 and after breakfast it was settled that he should drive with 
 Eugenie, for though much better, I did not venture out. In the 
 evening, however, I was to take Olga and Albertine to a ball at 
 the Austrian Ambassador's, and they were getting their dresses 
 ready for it. Our Guardian Angels, and all who watch over us 
 in Heaven must have pitied the poor children. Your father 
 walked with Eugenie and Adrian up and down the beautiful 
 green space which lies between S. John Lateran and Santa Croce 
 
 * The Bishop of Orleans, who had thus been with my father, as he had been 
 with Albert, during the last moments of his life. 
 
 t This habitual expression, ' Le bon Dieu,' loses all its force in the transla- 
 tion.— Tkanslatob. 
 
A SISTER'S ST0B7. 413 
 
 di Grierasalemme, greatly enjoying the lovely weather. Once 
 only for a moment he felt his pain at the heart. It went away 
 almost immediately, and he went on gathering jBowers with them. 
 He left them in his little carriage, and drove to Santa Maria 
 Maggiore, where he prayed a long time before the picture of the 
 Blessed Virgin in the Borghese Chapel, which was uncovered 
 that day. He also made the preparation for death on his knees, 
 a daily practice with him, and said more than twenty times the 
 Memorare for various intentions. Then he went to the Sacra- 
 mentale for Benediction, and came home pleased with his morning, 
 and refreshed by his walk. " I will walk every day," he said, 
 " I think it will do me good." He told me what prayers he had 
 said, and also " that he had made an offering of Ms life to God, with 
 a perfect readiness to yield it up if He wished to taJce it ; or, if He 
 chose to leave him in this world, to spend it entirely in serving and 
 honouring Him." He then began to write at his desk, and I went 
 to my room, where I knelt down to say the prayers I had not 
 been able to say with him in church. That week in bed had 
 made me rather languid. 
 
 ' There was a wretched brazier in the drawing-room, which for 
 several days we had said must not be left there, for it gave us 
 headaches. That evening there was scarcely any fire in it, and 
 we never thought of having it taken away. After dinner your 
 father went to sit beside this brazier, saying that his feet were 
 cold, and then he got up and began to play with Robert. He was 
 quite cheerful, and seemed well. Soon after that he went out of 
 the room, and a moment afterwards they came to tell me that he 
 had an attack of " his pain." I ran to him, and found him 
 indeed in great pain, and soon afterwards he was very sick. I 
 sent for the doctor, though I did not feel then any real anxiety. 
 Your sisters were having their hair dressed. Ah ! my God ! I 
 went to their room, and told them I was sorry to think I could 
 not take them to the ball, though I was convinced the attach woidd, 
 soon go off. I regretted, I said, to be obliged to deprive them of 
 this pleasure. His pain did, indeed, soon subside ; he seemed 
 better, and the surgeon, who was to have bled him, was sent 
 away. How strange it is that those who feel most intensely lose 
 their head and power of thinking when the fatal hour comes ! 
 We had so often seen him in the same state, and hope, always so 
 strong in these cases, deceived us all 
 
 ' My dear child, I cannot finish to-day, for it is almost more 
 now than my strength can bear, but I will do so to-morrow, 
 for I want to tell you everything myself. I must go to church, 
 for there only I can weep or live. I am also quite astounded at 
 this moment by the wonderful event that has taken place. The 
 
414 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 Abbe Grerbet is writing to you to-day, to give yon a full account 
 of it ; but it must be for ourselves only. Let us lay all these 
 things to heart, and say nothing about them. I am unworthy of 
 so great a mercy. my God, my God ! I can neither think nor 
 " I' 
 
 ' January 23rd. 
 
 * My Pauline, I will go on talking to you, for it seems to me 
 that it is the only thing that does me a little good. Can you 
 picture to yourself, my precious child, the depths of wretchedness 
 into which I have fallen, and in which I am every day sinking 
 deeper ? It seems like Purgatory begun, and Heaven only can 
 set me free. I cannot weep, my sufferings are too deeply seated 
 for tears. Tears imply that one day they will be dried up, but 
 when once the grave has closed over us we do not weep. Our 
 doom is fixed. And then comes the torturing thought that we 
 have not done all we might have done. But how can one 
 guard against the flash of lightning which in one instant does 
 its work ? And yet there was time lost ; we were stupefied, 
 bewildered. I think now, " If such and such things had been 
 
 done ," bat then the doctor was there, and I who am always 
 
 timid about trying remedies could never have dared propose 
 anything myself. 
 
 ' But to return to what I was telling you when I broke off. 
 Your father's pain ceased, and the surgeon went away without 
 bleeding him, but ten minutes after he was gone the pain came 
 on again. I ran to the head of the stairs to have the surgeon 
 stopped, and almost at the same instant some one told me that 
 the Abbe Gerbet was come. I went back, and imagine the 
 terror I felt at hearing the words of Absolution which the Abbe 
 was even then giving to your father ! " Ah ! my God ! my 
 God ! is it come to this ?" I inwardly exclaimed, and seized the 
 doctor by the arm : "Is there then no hope ?" He hesitated a 
 moment, and then said, " No !" And I heard the Abbe say, 
 " Put your trust in God ;" and your father answered, " I put my 
 whole trust in Him." Then the Abbe said, " Do you repent of 
 every sin of your past life ?" "Yes, yes!" your father replied 
 with a wonderful earnestness. His eyes shone in a way that 1 
 had never seen before. There was a Heavenly expression in 
 them. " Thank you, thank you !" he said. " Farewell, my 
 children — my wife, farewell !" Then he seized the Crucifix 
 (indulgenced for the hour of death) which was hanging by his 
 bedside, and kissed it fervently. Eugenie placed a pillow under 
 his head, and he said " Thanks, my child !" with a look that 
 will for ever be to her a blessed recollection. But he began to 
 
A SISTER'S ST0B7. 415 
 
 sink. I spoke to'him, and lie did not hear me. I entreated him 
 to press my hand, but that dear hand was motionless. The 
 pulse gave one bound, and after that beat no more 
 
 ' I saw all this. My eyes looked upon a scene, the bare 
 thought of which used nearly to deprive me of reason ! And Grod 
 gave me at that moment such inconceivable strength, that I can 
 only ascribe it to my poor husband's prayers. I made as 
 thorough an act of submission as I could. It was as if he were 
 holding me in his arms to support me the while. I am so 
 grateful to all my kind friends for having understood that it was 
 only by his side I could gain strength. They left me there, and 
 I was quite calm. Adrian found me on my knees some hours 
 afterwards, holding that dear hand so often clasped in mine. 
 He must have thought me mad when I said, " I am quite well, I 
 feel so near to him. I think we have never been so closely 
 united as now." 
 
 ' This was an immense grace vouchsafed to me at that dreadful 
 moment, when I felt as if the world and everything in it were at 
 an end. I was as it were lifted up with him very near to God, 
 and almost forgot my misery in the thought of his happiness. 
 Thus passed all that first night. At daybreak I left my beloved 
 one to go and hear Mass in the church opposite, and went to 
 Communion, as he had intended to do that day — the Feast of 
 S. Peter's Chair. How I went through it I hardly know. In 
 some strange state of abstraction, no doubt, for I could neither 
 pray nor weep. 
 
 ' Very soon I returned to my poor husband's side. I spent 
 the day sitting there, holding his hand and warming it with my 
 own, that it might preserve awhile the semblance of life. And 
 now that that time is gone by, I cannot understand how I had 
 strength to endure it; but God gave it me. All the second 
 night also I remained by him, alone as I thought, but in reality 
 there came friends, and good Priests one after another, to pray. 
 I laid my head near his on the pillow, and still holding him by 
 the hand I slept a little. Then I awoke and tried to pray, but 
 could scarcely pronounce any intelligible words ; I was utterly 
 prostrated. Ah ! what a night was that ! At five o'clock living 
 friends began to gather round me, and they begged me to go to 
 Eugenie's room and rest a little. ! my God ! has it really 
 come to this ? The anguish dreamed of for forty years, has it 
 really fallen to my lot ? . . . . 
 
 ' I should have liked to watch and pray without stirring 
 through the whole of the third night, but sometimes fatigue 
 overpowered me, and I sank exhausted into an arm-chair. Father 
 Geramb sat up with me. He came at eleven o'clock, and went 
 
416 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 away at eight in the morning. At six they forced me to go and 
 rest in Eugenie's room, bnt I went back in an hour's time, for I 
 could now, less than ever, absent myself from his room, for I felt 
 that the hour was drawing near when I should be deprived of him 
 altogether. To express the agony I went through is impossible ; 
 and I could only repeat, over and over again, that I wished to 
 unite it with Our Lord's agony and the blessed Virgin's sorrow 
 at the foot of the Cross. It was then, my dear child, that God 
 sent me so great, so Divine a consolation, that for the time being 
 my sufferings seemed almost suspended. 
 
 * As I was kneeling near the coffin, I felt my arm touched, and 
 the Abbe Gerbet, very much agitated, said, " Bussiere would like 
 to tell you something that will give you pleasure, and which has 
 something to do with M. de la Ferronnays." I got up quickly, 
 and found Theodore in a state of great excitement. You know 
 from the Abbe's letter what he related to me.* A sort of resur- 
 rection took place in my heart ! It was like a moment of sun- 
 shine, which did not, however, last long. For a moment it raised 
 me above myself, but I soon sank again. Still this consolation 
 had a real effect upon me. I am none the less alone, and none 
 the less is everything ended for me on earth, but he is liappy. I 
 can no longer have a doubt of it. As the Abbe Dupanloup said, 
 we may believe he died while making a perfect act of love, 
 which brought him immediately into the Bosom of God. This 
 thought sustained me. The young Jew [Ratisbonne] keeps con- 
 tinually repeating, " Is it not strange to feel so closely connected 
 with a man one has never seen — whose name even one hardly 
 knew, and after his death?" He wanted to spend the night 
 here in prayer, urging that he should not sufficiently express his 
 gratitude, unless he showed this mark of respect and affection to 
 one to whom he owed everything. But they would not let him 
 stay after ten o'clock. 
 
 ' ,What I heard so sank into my heart that I forgot myself for 
 awhile in the thought of that Heavenly glory now enjoyed by 
 him for whom I had so often and earnestly desired this world's 
 honours. But soon my anguish was renewed, and when the 
 evening drew in, I could not but feel that in a little while every- 
 thing would be taken from me. They told me that if I liked J 
 could go to one of the tribunes in the church, but I did not 
 know if I should have strength, or if I should be allowed to do so. 
 I kissed the pall that covered him, and the anguish of that 
 momen*: was beyond all expression. 
 
 ' At last the Abbe Gerbet came, and kneeling by me, kissed 
 
 * The account is given in the Abbe's letter which follows. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 417 
 
 the coffin also, and said to me, " Go into the tribune in the 
 church." I had given up all hope of being allowed to do this, 
 but getting up, I went out, and was present at the Office for the 
 Dead. Of the dead, and for whom ? . . . . ! my G-od ; I saw 
 him brought into the church ! . . . . When they took me away, 
 I bent down to the ground as I passed by him, and then got into 
 the carriage. All these things, the very thought of which was 
 like death, did not make me shed a tear. And now I must leave 
 you, my child. Clasp your poor mother in your arms. 
 
 ' My dear children, be very happy, that there may still be some 
 little sweetness left in my life.' 
 
 THE ABB^ GERBET TO PAULINE. 
 
 • January 22nd, 1842. 
 
 * My dear Child, — In my last letter to Mr. Craven I told you 
 that in the midst of your tears you had also much to give thanks 
 for ; but when I bade you lift up your heart to God with praise 
 because the holy death of a father is a great grace to his children, 
 I did not then know in what a wonderful manner these words 
 were to come true. God has granted to your family, and to you 
 all, one of the most magnificent . consolations imaginable — one of 
 those rare, wonderful consolations which it would not enter into 
 our minds to ask. I cannot yet give you all the details in this 
 letter — ^you will presently see why ; but I hasten to send an out- 
 hne of the facts. 
 
 ' You know, dear child, how little I am inclined to believe 
 lightly in miraculous occurrences ; the very reverence due to 
 supernatural manifestations obliges us not to yield an easy 
 credence to facts of this nature. But many other people as well 
 as myself cannot shut their eyes to the real character of the event 
 in question. A Jew, belonging to a very rich family of Alsace, 
 was walking about in the Church of Sant' Andrea delie Fratte, 
 during the preparations that were making for your dear father's 
 funeral, when he was suddenly converted, like S. Paul on 
 the way to Damascus, by a miraculous stroke of the Divine 
 power and goodness. He was standing in front of the chapel 
 dedicated to the Guardian Angels, when suddenly he had a 
 bright vision of the Blessed Virgin, who made him a sign to go 
 up to the chapel. Some irresistible force compelled him to obey, 
 and there he fell on his knees — a Christian. His first words on 
 lifting his head, with his face bathed in tears, were, ^^That gentle^ 
 man must have prayed very much for me!'' What wonderful 
 words, my dear child, concerning your dear father, whose body 
 
 2 E 
 
418 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 was just going to be brouglit into the chnrcli ! It is not possible 
 to doubt this young man's sincerity. He is very rich, and we 
 cannot feel about him as we should at first sight be inclined to do 
 towards any poor Jew who might become a Christian for the 
 sake of gain. M. Ratisbonne is the son of a Strasburg banker, 
 wealthy, and much respected. He was to have married in the 
 spring a young Jewish cousin, and his conversion will probably 
 break off his marriage. All his temporal interests militate 
 against his conversion, and his Jewish prejudices, together with 
 a general indifference to religious obser Frances, opposed it also. 
 He is a young man of very good manners, clever, and gifted with 
 talent for conversation. He is very intimate with Gustave 
 de Bussiere, who knew him at college, and kept up the friendship 
 since. He is twenty-eight years old. 
 
 ' I saw M. Ratisbonne this morning, and gathered these par- 
 ticulars from his own lips. I can hardly tell you how much it 
 makes me think of the conversion of S. Paul. He said, " I was 
 converted in an instant." He would like to die for the faith, 
 and, indeed, trials will not be wanting him. It was Theodore de 
 Bussiere who was led by providential circumstances to accom- 
 pany him that day to several churches. 
 
 ' The first words he said after receiving that extraordinary 
 grace, were significant enough as to your father's share in his 
 conversion, but there are other circumstances which will be 
 detailed in the fuU account I shall send you of all that preceded 
 and followed the event.* But I must begin by submitting it to 
 M. Ratisbonne and to Bussiere, to make sure of the accuracy of 
 the details. Meanwhile, my dear child, I beg of you not to speak 
 of this to any one except Mr. Craven, for when this sort of thing 
 is mentioned, it should be with the explanations and attestations 
 which establish the facts. ! my God ! this has been indeed a 
 magnificent grace ; an immense consolation. With these words, 
 my dear child, I take leave of you and your husband. I know 
 all you have felt and will feel.' 
 
 Eugenie wrote to me the same day as follows : — 
 
 ' My Pauline, — My beloved sister, I can only write a word or 
 two. I cannot write at length. And it is not grief that thus 
 takes all power from me, but the overwhelming, marvellous con- 
 eolations which have been showered upon us for the last three 
 
 * The Abbe did not accomplish this. The two best accounts are by M. de 
 Bussiere and Count Theobald Walsh. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 419 
 
 days. We have witnessed a miracle of grace, and if we ever had 
 any faith, we must now lift up our voices to praise, bless, and 
 thank Grod for all He has done for us. Pauline, I say it in sober 
 earnestness, in the full possession of my reason, enlightened by 
 Divine faith, I say it now, three days after my father's death, as 
 I said it on the morrow of the day he died. God has visited us 
 in a miraculous manner, and I adore Him with a deeper worship 
 than ever. I do not feel equal to giving you an account of what 
 has happened, but you will soon hear all the details of the 
 astonishing things that have taken place around us. ! 
 Pauline ! why are you not here to enjoy these blessed con- 
 solations ? 
 
 ' Believe me, I do beg of you — ^believe me when I say that we 
 ought to be comforted, for we are Christians, my beloved sister. 
 We may indeed weep for our much-loved father, but let us weep 
 as those who have a great hope — nay, more, who possess the 
 certainty of a blessedness which the heart of man cannot conceive. 
 
 ' Mamma — you know it already — has been like a true Mother 
 of Sorrows at the foot of the Cross, with her heart broken, but 
 tranquil and calm. She is a real miracle of grace. 
 
 * Good-bye. We are all well. God is with us, and this house 
 of sorrow is transformed. May you be blessed, and feel these 
 consolations in your heart. * Eugenie.' 
 
 I need not say anything of my own grief, or of the feelings of 
 supernatural joy which these letters gave me. Such things can 
 be understood, but hardly expressed in words. I can only say 
 that the very abundance of consolation which attended our 
 affliction, even while it was instilling comfort into my heart, 
 brought with it a kind of apprehension. It seemed as if so 
 extraordinary a grace could only have been granted to give us 
 strength for future suffering. This foreboding was soon verified. 
 
 Alexandrine — who had hastened to Rome on hearing of our 
 misfortune — wrote to me : — 
 
 * I have never yet seen so sweet and tranquil a grief; such 
 goodness and simplicity ; such evident marks of God's protec- 
 tion. I have always loved and reverenced our Mother, but 
 never so much as now. Oh, if my poor mother could come here ! 
 If she could only see and taste the Heavenly beauty of all that I 
 witness.' 
 
 But notwithstanding these consolations and soothing circum- 
 stances, it soon became evident that Eugenie, who had been a 
 little revived by the intensity of her grief and faith, began to 
 
 •2 E 2 
 
420 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 lose strength again. Soon the fever returned, and with the 
 prostration which followed it, came back also depression of mind. 
 It was Alexandrine who first gave me to understand how serious 
 the relapse was. Mj poor mother wished to spare me as much 
 as possible, and was herself willing to be deceived. My anxiety, 
 therefore, became greater than ever, when, instead of the natural 
 tone of her mind, which I had noticed in Eugenie's last letters, I 
 again discerned tokens of that depression which had been 
 tliroughout the worst symptom and the greatest trial of her 
 illness. There had been an intermission of this suffering. During 
 the first weeks of her stay in Rome she had felt and appeared 
 like herself again. At the time of my father's death especially, 
 her mind had shaken ofi" the weight of her enfeebled body, and 
 recovered the cheerfal energy of past days. But the heights of 
 Calvary were not yet reached. 
 
 Ah ! Redeemer of Men, Thou Thyself a Man, and suffering like 
 poor man, Thy creature — Thou, too, didst know the agony of 
 despondency, weariness, and sorrow ; and yet, notwithstanding, 
 didst walk under the burden of Thy Cross with a firm step, and 
 without a murmur or complaint ; but at length, being come to 
 the end. Thou, too, before Thy death, didst utter one loud cry for 
 consolation. And so it was with this poor child, who, when 
 crushed with weakness and pain, uttered these lowly words : — 
 ^My God, I dare not say, " 81ie whom Thou lovest is sick,'' hut I do 
 say, " She who loves Thee is sick, and craves Thy '^^^'^ f 
 
 To me she wrote on the 10th of March : — 
 
 * My dear Sister, — Your letters make me sad, because they 
 show me the excess of my own spiritual misery. I am ashamed 
 of thinking so much of life, of regretting the happiness^ of this 
 world, and instead of being, as I used to be, ready to die and 
 leave everything to God's will, to be grieving over pleasures I 
 can no longer share, and even asking God sometimes to give me 
 two more years of health and enjoyment. What will you say to 
 such a cowardly prayer ? God withholds His grace from me just 
 now, and I think I have never borne suffering so badly. Fare- 
 well, my dear sister. Pray for your poor little dear one, and ask 
 for her the grace to suffer with patience. ! I do wish I could 
 see you ! Farewell.' 
 
 This letter, the last I ever received from her, pierced my heart 
 with a grief almost as keen as the suffering I felt when I heard 
 of her death. ' my God ! ' I kept repeating, ' my God ■I 
 
A SISTER'S ST0R7. 421 
 
 take her if Thou wilt. I do not ask to keep her, but do not let her 
 lose Thee ! ' I went to S. Gudule, where I earnestly prayed, 
 not that her health might be restored, but that her beloved soul 
 might find light and peace again in a perfect acquiescence with 
 that Divine will which she had always loved beyond all things ; 
 that all regret for earthly things might cease, and then that God 
 would deal with her as he pleased. 
 
 This prayer was continually on my lips and in my heart during 
 those days of anguish. If I had been with her, I should have 
 been spared this cruel suffering, for that letter which almost broke 
 my heart did not really represent the habitual state of her soul. 
 There is a chalice we must all drink of — that natural repugnance 
 to suffer and die — which Eugenie had never hitherto understood, 
 so great had been from childhood her loving habit of looking 
 upon death as the means of going to God. But now she was 
 called upon for a moment to taste its bitterness, and thus to 
 make the full and generous sacrifice of her life. This hard 
 trial was courageously met, and during her last days on earth the 
 impression left on the minds of all those about her was one of 
 perfect serenity, submission to God's will, and of a peace* which 
 no depression of mind nor pain of body could affect. 
 
 On the 2nd of April, Adrian and Eugenie left Rome, a strange 
 decision of the doctors having compelled them to try the effect of 
 change of air. My poor mother, Olga, Alexandrine, and Mons. 
 and Mme. de Bussiere, accompanied them to Albano. There she 
 took leave of them for the last time. They lifted her child into 
 the carriage, that she might kiss him once more ; and Madame 
 de Bussiere, who was close to the door of the carriage, heard her 
 murmur, ' You will never see your mother again.' But she did 
 not break down. She went away with calnmess, courage, and 
 even a sort of joy, as if she felt it easier to make the sacrifice of 
 her life, when not surrounded by all those she loved, or was 
 anxious perhaps to lavish upon her husband alone such tokens of 
 tenderness which her failing strength enabled her to give. It was 
 settled that in case any unfavourable symptoms occurred, her 
 family should instantly be sent for. 
 
 Eugenie was a little better at Naples, where she stayed till the 
 5th of April, and on that day embarked for Palermo. Her friend, 
 the Marquise de Raigecourt, who was then going with her husband 
 to the East, was in the same vessel, and also the Comte Auguste 
 d'Ursel, and the Yicomte de Gontant. 
 
 God orders all for the best. Much as I have often envied these 
 friends, I should perhaps not have had courage to take my place 
 by her side, and to see her die ; for the blow which was so terri- 
 ble from a distance might have killed me if I had been there. 
 
422 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 They arrived at Palermo on the 6th of April. She was not 
 ill, she seemed even to be better ; but her long illness, my father's 
 death, the interior trials she had gone through at Rome, and her 
 last days at Naples, had, no doubt, exhausted her remaining 
 strength. She was ready to depart, and without any new suf- 
 fering, without leave-takings, and without further preparation 
 than what she made day by day, this dearest, sweetest sister was 
 taken to her rest by Him who gave her to me to love on earth, 
 and will give her back to me for all Eternity in Heaven.* 
 
 The following letter brought the terrible news to Rome : — 
 
 THE MARQUIS DE EAIGECOURT TO THE ABB:6 GERBET. 
 
 * Palermo, April 7th, 1842. 
 
 * My dear Monsieur I'Abbe, — All is over. This morning, 
 between seven and eight, I was present at the death, or rather 
 the flight to Heaven, of an Angel. Poor Adrian came in great 
 agitation and knocked at my door, when I hastened to his wife's 
 bedside. Madame de Raigecourt soon followed. A few moments 
 afterwards Madame de Mun had ceased to breathe, without any 
 effort or struggle, and as gently as she had lived. There was no 
 time to call either Priest or doctor ; and, indeed, the latter would 
 have been useless, and the fonner not necessary, except for the 
 sake of example. For what better preparation for death could 
 there be than such a life and such sufferings, and the whole habit 
 of mind of a -person so near perfection ? These words of Scrip- 
 ture might well be applied to her — " Opera illorum sequuntur 
 illos.'^ 
 
 ' Would you like to know what was the last thing she did at 
 Naples ? Just before coming away she made a touching, gentle 
 little exhortation to a person you are interested about, and who 
 is a prey to a moral disease more terrible by far than her bodily 
 one, and then hanging a medal round his neck, she begged him 
 to wear it in remembrance of her and her father. Tell this to 
 Madame de la Ferronnays, for she will know who it is, and it 
 will give her comfort. Ah ! how I could kiss the ground on 
 which Madame de la Ferronnays treads ! She is a martyr, and 
 what a martyrdom it is, and how sweetly, calmly, submissively 
 borne ! May she meet this long-foreseen blow with that fortitude 
 which is not derived from any earthly source. May she feel that 
 she must live on for the sake of the children still spared to her. 
 
 * You have again, my dear Monsieur I'Abbe, a sad task to 
 
 * In her blotting-paper book was found a letter beginning, ' Dear sister of 
 my life,' the last words her dear hand ever wrote to me. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 423 
 
 fulfil with regard to this pious and afiiicted family. God give 
 you grace and strength to accomplish it ! I thought it best to 
 make the event known to you, their guide and comforter, that 
 you might be able to carry to them, at the same time as the 
 dreadful news, words of consolation. M. d'Ursel has given up 
 his journey to stay with M. de Mun ; which I would gladly have 
 done also, but I am afraid of exposing my wife in her delicate 
 state, to much agitation,* and I have therefore reluctantly decided 
 to continue our voyage. * Marquis de Raigecotjiit. 
 
 ' P.S. — Do not let any one suppose there was any imprudence 
 in crossing to Sicily. Mme. de Mun did not suffer from sea- 
 sickness ; she was better yesterday evening than I had yet seen 
 her, and nothing gave signs of her approaching end. It was, 
 perhaps ordained by God that she should die at a distance from 
 her family, to spare her mother and Mdlle. Olga another blow, 
 which m.ight have proved fatal to the latter.' 
 
 The Abbe Gerbet broke the terrible news to my mother, and 
 then he thought of me ; but my mother, regardless of her own 
 sufferings, wished to write to me herself, and that sad day on 
 which those two letters were written, was my own birthday, 
 April the 12th. 
 
 MADAME DE LA FERRONNATS TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Eome, April 12th, 1842. 
 
 * My poor, beloved Pauline, — ^We were very wretched before, 
 but now we are still more deeply afflicted. God has chosen to 
 take them both. I knew it would be so. Those who are in 
 Heaven, and know its happiness and the misery of this world, 
 cannot iDut pray for those they love to be removed from it. My 
 well-beloved child, I weep with you and for you, and for myself, 
 and for all those who are left behind. As to her, she is in the 
 midst of Heavenly joys with her dear father, and Albert, and the 
 four little Angels who have waited for us all so long. 
 
 ' My poor child, do not grieve that you are not there. We 
 were not there either. Our good Angels saw that we should not 
 have strength to receive another last sigh so soon, and they led 
 that beloved one a little apart to carry her gently away. Yes, 
 she is there where she had so long desired to be, where you, my 
 dear daughter, had pictured her to yourself in that " dream " 
 
 * The Marquis de Eaigecourt died one year after Eugenie. It is probable 
 that the terrible emotion she must have gone through at Palermo hastened 
 her end. She was devotedly attached to Eugenie, and her death was the 
 greatest sorrow she had known. 
 
424 A SISTER'S STOBt. 
 
 which I read a week ago with such unspeakable emotion. Ah ! 
 my God, when shall we all get there ? And now, my precious 
 child, I am in a fever to see you again. I shall not feel to exist 
 until I fold you in my arms. I think I shall set out as soon as 
 Adrian comes. If it were possible I would start to-day. I do so 
 long to fly for refuge to my dear child. My treasure, take care 
 of yourself, look to yourself, think how necessary you are to 
 your poor mother, who sees the tree which sheltered her stripped 
 of its branches. ! I suffer when I think of the pain I intiict 
 on you. My thoughts are more taken up with your sorrow than 
 with my own grief. My poor Olga is well ; she is calm and 
 brave, and feels how necessary she is to her unhappy mother. 
 For her the shock would certainly have been greater and more 
 overwhelming, if she had seen her sister die. Let us join in 
 prayer, nor leave the foot of the Cross, where God and the 
 Blessed Virgin will help us. My dear Augustus and Pauline, 
 weep with me, and I shall soon be mourning and praying with 
 you. I will never leave you again. I love you both so much, 
 my heart can find no rest but in the thought of you. ! that 
 it should be on the 12th of April I should have to inflict on you 
 this blow ! There is not a single bright day left for us now.' 
 
 THE ABB^ GERBET TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' It has pleased God, my dear child, once again to call upon 
 you to renew the sacrifice of parting with a dear friend, with the 
 additional pang of not being present at the departure of the be- 
 loved one. Alas ! we have all had to offer up this aggravated 
 suffering. If no Heavenly vision, such as hallowed your dear 
 father's grave, has honoured your sister's remains, the holiness 
 of her hfe has nevertheless shed a brightness over its closing 
 scene, in which, without the shadow of a cloud, we can confi- 
 dently see that her soul is saved. I should look upon all doubt 
 about her salvation as a temptation dishonourable to the Divine 
 stamp which God so visibly set upon her. On the day before 
 she left Naples she was at confession, and health alone prevented 
 her from going to Communion. She had, however, enjoyed that 
 blessing a short time before, and was always communicating in 
 spirit. Would I could describe to you the piety with which she 
 spent the Holy Week in Rome. I have no doubt she felt as if 
 ascending to Calvary, and as she uttered the words of the 
 Gospel, ^^ Father, into Thy hands I commend my s]pirit,'' her soul 
 must have been so closely united to her crucified Saviour, that 
 death removed her from the Cross only to place her in the Arms 
 of Our Lord, Who has promised to crown His saints. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. ^5 
 
 * My dear child, let us solace our grief with this perfect confi- 
 dence, or rather assurance of her happiness ; but pray for her, never- 
 theless, as if we were not convinced of it, and also for all those 
 she has left behind in this Valley of Tears. We must strengthen 
 our souls with these words, " For we have not here a lasting city, 
 hut we seek one that is to co77ie."* There is no help or comfort 
 but in this thought, which we should meditate upon at the foot 
 of the Cross. God loves you very much, and by means of these 
 severe trials He will make you advance in His love. Your 
 growth in holiness will be the crown you will lay on those 
 beloved graves. This letter is addressed as much to Mr. Craven 
 as to you. He was such a perfect brother to Eugenie, and feels 
 your sori-ows to be his own, that neither in my thought nor in 
 my letters can I ever separate you. 
 
 ' Now that I can endeavour to comfort you without having 
 also to speak always of new fears, I shall often write, though 
 anything I can say will be of little use compared with the con- 
 solations God Himself will impart to your soul. Our friendship 
 has been sealed by the side of three graves, and as long as I 
 remain in this world I hope to minister to those whose griefs 
 I have shared, and to mourn and pray with them over those 
 tombs, which seem to me like a pledge of God's Presence 
 amongst us.' 
 
 What I felt on receiving these letters, and during the days and 
 weeks that followed, I will not dwell upon. But personal recol- 
 lections make no part of my story, and, alas ! the tale of that 
 eventful year is not yet full. 
 
 In the Marquis de Raigecourt's letter a fear was expressed as 
 to the effect which a sudden blow might produce on Olga's 
 health. And it was true that in the midst of so much sorrow 
 my mother had undergone serious uneasiness on her account, 
 foreboding fresh trials. In consequence of the shock she had 
 experienced on the evening of the 17th of January, and jast 
 when Eugenie was beginning to grow worse, Olga had had a 
 long and dangerous illness. She certainly seemed to recover 
 afterwards, but her constitution had received a blow from which 
 it never recovered. 
 
 When she was summoned to her father's death-bed she had 
 
 just been placing a wreath of flowers on her head. When she 
 
 took it off she never again wore any earthly ornament. From 
 
 that moment life was, as it were, over for her ; or, indeed, then 
 
 * Heb. xiii. 14. 
 
426 A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 began a new life, a new path, in whicli she was to make such 
 rapid strides as soon to deserve that imperishable crown, the 
 flowers of which never fade or die. 
 
 OLGA TO PAULINE. 
 
 * Eome, April, 16th, 1842. 
 ' My beloved Pauline, — Though my eyes are very bad I want 
 to write to you, for Alexandrine has not time to do so, and you 
 must not be a whole day without letters. We do so long to 
 know how you are, and how God has helped you to bear this 
 sudden blow. Poor darling ! "Would that I could comfort you. 
 Would you were here weeping and praying with us, and sharing 
 the painful sweetness of looking over everything that belonged 
 to that idolized sister, and reading her Journals, which are a 
 great source of comfort, for after having had such thoughts, and 
 written such things, and suffered, as we know she did, we may 
 surely believe this dear one to be in Heaven with Grod Whom 
 she so loved, with Albert, and praying for us all. Ah ! my God, 
 how life passes away ! This is a comfort, for we must hope that 
 a day will come at last when we too shall be in that dear Heaven* 
 The days, indeed, seem to fly. The same hour each evening 
 comes back so quickly that I could almost fancy I had never 
 moved, that only five minutes had elapsed since the previous 
 night. It will be three months to-morrow since our Eugenie 
 was weeping over my father's death, and now she has seen him 
 again. We have nothing to do here but to prepare for death, 
 and advance as much as possible in the knowledge of God. 0, 
 how that dear sister loved Him ! A few days before she left 
 Eiome and this world she was speaking to the good Abbe 
 de la Bouillerie* of the passage in the Gospel, where ^Martha 
 says to Our Lord, " He whom Thou lav est is sich^ Eugenie 
 said that in meditating on those words she never ventured 
 to repeat, " She whom Thou lovest is sich,'^ but " She who loves 
 Thee so much is sick," adding, with a smile, " And that is 
 indeed true." Poor darling sister, if you knew how she was 
 changed, and how thin she had become, but still so pretty ! 
 Dear Eugenie ! she was so necessary to our happiness ! she made 
 our home so pleasant, and was in every way so charming. God 
 has taken her away to wean us from this life, and make us long 
 for the next. We are every moment expecting poor Adrian. 
 What we shall do afterwards God only knows. I must leave 
 off on account of my eyes. May God help us all. I love you. 
 most affectionately.' 
 
 * Since Bishop of Carcassonne, well known for his admirable labours in Paria 
 in behaJf of the Patronage des Enfans. — Tbanslatob. 
 
A SISTER' 8 STORT, 421 
 
 OLGA TO PAULINE. 
 
 'Eome, May 10th, 1842. 
 
 * My darling Pauline, — How I wish I could see you again ! 
 How overwhelmed with grief you are, my poor sister ; but it is 
 impossible to last long, and Eugenie will obtain for you a little 
 tranquillity of mind. Why are you not here ? I am continually 
 amazed at the peace we enjoy. Even I, who last summer used to 
 shudder and shed tears at the bare thought that she might die, am 
 so calm now that I am sometimes afraid it comes from coldness of 
 heart. But I have had, or rather, God has given me, such good 
 Strengthening thoughts. I have seen that the earthly happiness 
 so much longed for, so much regretted, is scarcely worth the 
 trouble it costs, and that life is at best very short. Pleasure is 
 so mixed with suffering that one can scarcely separate the two ; 
 and suffering passes away also, and is often mixed with Heavenly 
 joys. Yes ! everything come to an end. Even during the terrible 
 scene of Adrian's return, I said to myself, " This will pass away 
 also, and when we shall have been ages in Heaven, with what feelings 
 shall we look back to these short moments of trial ? " Why, we 
 shall praise God for having sent them to us, for we shall see that 
 they were the means of teaching us something of the worthless- 
 ness of this world, and of winning for us the glorious Eternal life 
 we shall then be enjoying. God gave me to understand this in 
 my youth ; and it is a great grace, if I can only correspond with 
 it. Spring and the fine weather painfully affected my mother the 
 other day, but I felt quite differently. The new life of nature 
 made me think of the new life which has begun for Eugenie. But 
 what a contrast ! These leaves and flowers will fade away and 
 die, while she, our Heavenly flower, has done with all that perishes 
 and passes away. 
 
 * And then — I always come back to that — life is so short ! We 
 have only to love God, to do the utmost good we can, save 
 our own souls and help to save those of others, and that will 
 be enough to fill up all our life and heart, and in a happy manner 
 too. But do not go and fancy I am good because I write these 
 sort of things. It is not I who say them, it is the grace of God 
 speaking in me. I am very miserable, cold, indifferent, and lazy 
 about prayer. Pray a little for me that I may not lose the good 
 impressions I have lately received. 
 
 * Good-bye, dear, dear one. I am dreadfully hurried. 
 
 * Olga.' 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 Certainly it was grace that influenced her, but she was faithful 
 in the use of it. / 
 
 From April the 21st, the day on which I received the news of ' 
 Eugenie's death, till May the 26th, I did not open the Journal in 
 which I was in the habit of recording the daily events of my life. 
 I then wrote at Paris, ' I have been ill a long time ; not able to 
 speak, or scarcely to think ;' the very next day God vouchsafed to 
 send me a real consolation. It was Sunday, and Corpus Christi. 
 I went to Mass at the Mother- House of the Sisters of Charity in 
 the Rue du Bac. There for the first time I saw Alphonse Ratis- 
 bonne, who had just come from Rome ; and the words we 
 exchanged in the convent-garden gave me the first feelings of 
 pleasure and entire resignation that I had known since our sorrows. 
 
 He was still dressed as a layman, but was about to enter the 
 Society of Jesus. I asked him why he could not become a Priest 
 and yet remain with his brother the Abbe ; and he replied, that 
 after the extraordinary grace he had received he could not give God 
 ' less tlia^i all.'' This answer struck me very much. He added 
 that there was no earthly tie so strong as that by which he felt 
 himself bound to my father : ' I owe him more than life, and I am 
 more his child than even you are,' he said. 
 
 These words, the tone in which he said them, and his own 
 account of the marvellous grace vouchsafed him, which even at a 
 distance had touched me so deeply, did me a great deal of good, 
 and strengthened me for the trial of the next day. I was going to 
 Boury with my husband to receive my mother, who was to arrive 
 there soon after us. 
 
 In speaking of my first meeting with Alexandrine after Albert's 
 death, I said that the recollection of that arrival was sweet and 
 happy compared with those I had to go through there later in 
 life. This will not surprise those who can picture to themselves 
 what it was to wait for my mother in that forlorn and empty 
 house, and to fold her in my arms after all the sorrows which had 
 befallen us. They had left, alas ! but too visible traces on her, 
 face, and, at the first moment, I thought her more changed than 
 Olga, who appeared quite restored to health. During that melan- 
 choly time at Boury, and our still more melancholy visit to 
 Lumigny, where I went in June, exactly a year after I had taken 
 leave there of Eugenie, we had no fresh anxiety on Olga's account. 
 In a little while I went back to Brussels, where my mother and my 
 sister were to come to us, and for a few weeks it proved a plea- 
 sant occupation to me to arrange the rooms they were to occupy 
 in our house. For I need not say that we responded to my poor 
 mother's wish to make her home with us by our own ardent 
 desire to keep her under our roof. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 So they came, and Alexandrine soon followed them. Since 
 her brother's death she had only left her mother for the last few 
 days of Eugenie's stay in Rome ; and after her death, which 
 produced, as will be seen, a deep and decisive effect upon her 
 soul and her after-life, she returned to Florence, and then accom- 
 panied her mother to Grermany, taking Albertine with her to the 
 Baths at Ems. From thence she brought her to Brussels, where 
 she herself stayed a few weeks, but afterwards returned to 
 Frankfort to spend the winter with the Princess Lapoukhyn. 
 There she remained until a new sorrow brought her back to us, 
 whose griefs had become her own. Even after all that had 
 passed since we had been together at Naples, this short meeting 
 was a great comfort to me, and then I began to notice the change 
 which I have already mentioned. It seemed like a perfect trans- 
 formation wrought by the blessed departed spirit with whom she 
 had been so intimately united on earth. 
 
 In the autumn of that year we went for some time to Blanken- 
 burg, then a desolate and very melancholy place by the sea-side, 
 which we chose in preference to Ostend on account of our deep 
 mourning. It was there, on that dreary beach, on a day which 
 I shall never forget, under a lurid and stormy sky, that I hap- 
 pened to look at Olga, and, struck by the change in her face, felt 
 persuaded that she too was about to die: 
 
 She, that sweet, -young, good sister, who gave me back, at 
 least in part, what I had lost ; with whom I no longer felt the 
 difference in age, so much had her mind as well as her soul been 
 matured during the months that had gone by, and who indeed 
 even in childhood had been thoughtful beyond her years — was 
 she too going to die ? It was a dreadful conviction, and I tried 
 at first to shake it off, endeavouring to persuade myself that her 
 pallor and the vivid red of her lips, which had so much alarmed 
 me, were merely accidental. But this was that first moment of 
 dread, more terrible perhaps than any other, and which I have 
 never forgotten: It was like the terror I had felt at Paris about 
 Eugenie the year before her death. 
 
 The following day Olga was seized with such a violent pain in 
 the side that my mother, who was obliged to remain at Blancken- 
 burg with my youngest sister, asked me to take Olga at once to 
 Brussels to consult a good physician. We went, and Olga 
 laughed about it, and said there was no occasion to be anxious 
 about her. Still, at Bruges, where we stopped for two hours, 
 she had not strength to accompany me to the church, though 
 she had a great curiosity to see the tombs of Mary of Burgundy 
 and Charles the Bold. I did not like to tell her that she was too 
 ill to go, and was about to take her there, when, just as we were 
 
'430 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 setting out, she sat down again, and begged me to go without 
 her. 
 
 When we arrived at Brussels, where my husband had preceded 
 us, we found him waiting for us in the hall. The house was 
 arranged in the English manner, with the dining-room on the 
 ground-floor. We went into it for supper, and during the 
 meal Olga was in such good spirits that I had a little moment of 
 jo J. It seemed impossible that she could be really very ill. 
 Near the dining-room was a study, into which we went after 
 supper. This room was full of books and old furniture, which 
 with the fire-light and candles, gave it such a cheerful and 
 studious appearance, that Olga exclaimed in a great delight: 
 * ! this is where I shall estabhsh myself to study ! You must 
 put a table for me in this corner for my books, and then you may 
 lend me whatever I may read.' After that she went merrily up- 
 stairs to the bed- room where she was to sufier so much, and we 
 never again saw her in the library in which she had hoped to 
 spend so many happy hours. 
 
 Her illness lasted five months, while we watched the fluctua- 
 tions of that ten-ible disease which more than any other torments 
 the heart with hopes and fears. These painful alternations were 
 endured with unwearying patience. She speaks, indeed, some- 
 times in her letters, of the irritabihty of her nerves, and her fears 
 lest others should have to sufier on that account, but never had 
 any one less reason for such apprehensions. In the first days of 
 her illness she used sometimes to shed tears, but after the begin- 
 ning of January, when her case had become hopeless, she never 
 gave way to emotion. Her courage and serenity, as well as her 
 tender affection for all those about her, went on increasing. In 
 short, it pleased Grod fully to grant the desires expressed in the 
 following letters to Alexandrine, written at different times of her 
 long illness. 
 
 The first was dated November 29th, 1842 :— 
 
 * My beloved Alex, you are a very dear sister to write me such 
 a delightfully affectionate letter. I am not worthy to have 
 sisters like you, my dear ones. God quite spoils his poor child, 
 who shows so much coldness in return for all the tenderness 
 lavished upon her. The happiness I look forward to, if I get to 
 Heaven, is an immense amount of love to God and of all crea- 
 tures, and a continual ardent enthusiasm. This is pretty much 
 what you would expect, I suppose ? It was very wrong of me to 
 be so long without writing, and to let you begin. I might have 
 written long ago, though I lead the life of an invalid, and am not 
 at all well yet. 
 
A SISTER'S STOET, 4^ 
 
 * I think the doctors do not know what to prescribe for me. I 
 have a pain in my side, and a continual nervous irritabihty. I 
 cry about the least trifle, and even the care taken of me makes 
 me inwardly cross. No one escapes, not even Mamma and 
 Pauline. They say it is not visible, which astonishes me, for I 
 cry, and there is nothing more difficult to hide than that. I 
 make resolutions to overcome myself, for if I am to be ill a long 
 time, and if I am likely to get worse, that irritability will 
 increase if I do not make some effort to subdue it in the be- 
 ginning. I well know what it makes others suffer, and it 
 would be dreadful to add to the grief of my dear family at 
 seeing me ill, that other grief of not feeling at their ease 
 when they are nursing me, of fearing to annoy me, and of 
 doing what is disagreeable to me. I know this is sometimes the 
 case in illness, and it might happen so with me. This is the 
 greatest of all sufferings. O ! may it at least touch none but me ! 
 Alex, pray a little that I may have strength to overcome myself. 
 If only I could leave off crying. But perhaps Grod wishes me to 
 accept this weakness as a humiliation, otherwise I suffer very 
 little. I am never bored, I am not out of spirits. Sometimes 
 the wish to be in Paris has troubled me very much, but I have 
 subdued this desire, for we must only wish what is God's will. 
 
 ' What a wonderful story that is of Mdlle. de Maistre ! Thank 
 you for your delightful letter about her. It gave me a thrill, 
 and, ! how I wish for many such emotions ! Will faith be 
 reckoned to us as a virtue, who seem every day to see, as it were, 
 into the next world ? Doubts are no longer my spiritual difficulty, 
 but rather the weakness of my love of God, my tepidity, my 
 negligence in prayer, my want of trust in God, of confiding faith 
 and interior joy. I have Mass here, and sometimes go to Com- 
 munion. That good Father Boone has been exceedingly kind to 
 me, and this is, indeed, true charity. 
 
 * So you are become one of Christ's own poor ? How comes 
 it that He deals thus with those who are only wishing for money 
 to do good ? * But I suppose He does it that we may renounce 
 ourselves, and pursue self into its last stronghold, by enduring, 
 perhaps, the greatest of all Crosses, that of seeing others suffer 
 without being able to help them. Poor Alex ! what will yon do 
 now? 
 
 * How is Putbus going on ? I am always praying for him. 
 Good-bye. I think I have nothing more to say but that I love you.' 
 
 Olga's second letter to Alexandrine was written on the 2nd of 
 January, 1843, a few weeks before her death. 
 
 * Alexandrine had made some fruitless efforts to invest some money for the 
 benefit of the poor. 
 
A SISTER'S 8T0BT. 
 
 *My dear old Sister, — I must write you a line to-day. I 
 should have done so yesterday, but I was lazy. I wish you a 
 good, a holy new year ; that we may all do God's will, may love 
 Him more and more, and that your mother may become a 
 Cathohc, and also your dear brother * and his wife. I have 
 asked Eugenie and Albert to obtain this for me as a new year's 
 gift. I am so sorry they are leaving you. If only you could 
 come here ! 
 
 ' I am weak, I cough, I have a pain in my side, I am weary 
 and nervous ; and though I said I wished you were here, it is, 
 perhaps, better not, for you might provoke me when those odious 
 moments of nervousness come on, and if even for an instant I 
 seemed to take a dislike to you, it would vex me dread- 
 fully. Dear, darling little sister, pray that I may suffer patiently 
 as long as it is God's will. I have resolved to act exactly as I 
 should do if I knew that I should die of this illness. I try to 
 look forward to death without fear, and to read everything that 
 can make me love God more and more. If only I could pray 
 well, but, alas ! . . . . Still I hope that our good God accepts 
 my sufferings as if I offered them up more perfectly. He is so 
 merciful — He asks from us nothing but a good will, and I trust 
 mine is good. I have not faith enough in His goodness, nor 
 trust, nor love. Good-bye. I am tired. The doctor says I 
 shall get well in the spring. Remember me to your mother, 
 and wish her for me all the blessings of the new year.' 
 
 The year 1843 opened as sadly for us as the preceding one. 
 During the month of January all the symptoms of Olga's disease 
 increased, and the danger which had been apprehended for four 
 months became imminent. One day, in the drawing-room, 
 where she could still come down, and where she spent some 
 hours every day, Olga had been for some time thoughtful, and I 
 was sitting beside her, silently and sadly listening to her rapid 
 breathing, and gazing at her face, which was altering more and 
 more. Suddenly she said to me quietly, ' Do you know I think 
 I am very happily situated ?' I felt surprised. ' Yes,' she 
 repeated, ' I am very well off; for either I shall get well,> or 1 
 shall die. If I get well I shall be very glad. 1 shall enjoy the 
 spring, and the pleasure of getting strong again as I did last year 
 at Rome, and, above all, of going to Paris and seeing my dear 
 Narishkins. If, on the other hand, I die, all this year of sorrow- 
 that we have gone through, and my illness, and then the Plenary 
 Indulgences that I may gain at death, make me hope that I shall 
 go very quickly to Heaven.' It affected me so much to hear hei* 
 
 * The brother who had been in exile, and had married since his return. 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 433 
 
 speak in tliis way, that I remained speechless. After a moment's 
 reflection she said with the same composure, ' After all, if I did get 
 well now, I should have to begin to sufi'er again some day before 
 I die. So that already having had so much pain, and come so 
 
 far .   ' Here she broke off, and then added, 'Anyhow, 
 
 I hope that if you saw or were told that I was getting worse, 
 you would not be so foolish as not to tell me so directly.' She 
 stopped there, and kissing her forehead, I told her to bless God 
 for the peace He had given her soul. 
 
 That blessed peace remained the same throughout the last 
 stage of cruel suffering which then began ; when fever, cough- 
 ing, and increased oppression of breathing deprived her of all 
 rest during the day, and of sleep at night. She used often to 
 make verses during those long sleepless nights ; lines which, if 
 not always correct, are to my mind full of the true spirit of 
 poetry as well as fervent piety. It seemed as if under the 
 pressure of suffering that chosen soul emitted some exquisitely 
 sweet perfume. This is no sudden thought. It was constantly 
 in my mind as I sat by her side, feeling my grief almost swal- 
 lowed up at times in the emotion and joy of seeing her thus 
 entirely resigned to God, and giving us all so wonderful an 
 example. 
 
 Olga had prayed not to feel or show irritability, and she 
 obtained that grace, for her meekness and patience increased 
 with each day that brought her nearer to her end. My poor 
 mother had the especial comfort of being more able than any one 
 else to soothe and comfort her. Olga said that she suffered less 
 when her head was resting upon her mother's shoulder than 
 at any other time, and she would remain whole hours in that 
 position, holding her by the hand, and from time to time saying 
 sweet and tender words. 
 
 As she had intended, she neither read nor wished to have 
 anything read to her, which did not tend to bring her nearer to 
 God ; such as prayers or passages from the lives and writings 
 of the Saints ; and her memory, which never failed in the least, 
 brought back to her mind all the pious sayings she now applied 
 to herself. Thus she had once read that S. Bernard compared 
 souls to precious stones, which are rough and dull unless they 
 are cut, shaped, and chiselled. 
 
 One day when she had suffered more than usual, and I kissed 
 her with tears in my eyes, saying, ' O, poor child, how you 
 suffer!' she smiled and said, 'What would you have? We 
 must let God cut us into shape.' These sort of remarks were 
 always on her lips. Another day she said, ' I do not like pain, 
 but I can understand that we must suffer. When the head is 
 
 2 F 
 
434 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 sick the whole body suffers, and Jesus Christ is our Head.' 
 Some weeks afterwards she said to Charles, ' Every day I make 
 a bouquet * of my sufferings, and offer it to Grod for some one 
 or other. I assure you I do not forget you or yours.' 
 
 Her last days were drawing near. Alexandrine had come to 
 see her once more, and soon afterwards my brothers and their 
 wives. Olga had also earnestly hoped to see her two friends, 
 Catherine and Nathalie Narishkin, whom one of their aunts had 
 promised to bring to Brussels, but she had not had that happi- 
 ness. 
 
 On the third of February, Father Pilat,t her confessor, pro- 
 posed to give her Extreme Unction and the Viaticum. She 
 gladly assented, and prepared to receive the Last Sacraments, not 
 only gratefully, but with holy joy. I wrote in my Journal : — ' A 
 holy, solemn, and sweet day, like a day of first Communion;' 
 and again, ' After a sound and peaceful sleep which followed the 
 administration of the Sacraments, Olga said, " It is so sweet, on 
 waking, to feel that I am in the same state as on the day of my 
 baptism." And the same evening she exclaimed, " 0, what a 
 happy day this has been ! How gratefully I shall remember it 
 if I get well ! I am sorry that Eugenie had not this happi- 
 ness." ' 
 
 After night prayers, which we always said in her room, she 
 wished us to add the Te Deum in thanksgiving for that blessing. 
 
 On the 10th of February, the day when that dear soul was to 
 break its bonds, J she prepared in the morning to go to Communion 
 as usual, for Mass had been said for a week in the next room, and 
 Communion given to her every day. But the extreme weakness 
 which had followed the sufferings of the last night made her 
 afraid of not being able to communicate. Alexandrine said to 
 her — ' You are going to receive Him Who will give you strength.' 
 
 * Yes,' Olga humbly replied ; ' but hoiu shall I receive Him ?' 
 A little while afterwards I said to her — ' My dear little sister, I 
 need not remind you that it is those whom God loves best who 
 suffer as you are doing.' ' Ah !' she replied, with an angelic ex- 
 pression, ' that is the A B C of religion ! ' 
 
 She heard Mass, received Communion, and then asked us to 
 read to her in Italian Silvio Pellico's Act of Love, which begins, 
 Amo, e sovra il mio cor.' After that, by her desire, we left her 
 
 * Catholics are accustomed to make little acts of different virtues, or to 
 accept the pain, weariness, &c., of sickness during each day, and offer them as 
 flowers are offered on an altar. — Translator. 
 
 t Superior of the Redemptorists at Brussels. 
 
 X On one of these days, when Olga was asked which she should like best, some 
 tisane or water, she replied, ' I should like water best.' Then she added, 
 
 * Jesus Christ on the Cross never said, " I like." ' 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 435 
 
 for an hour. At noon we were called in haste. She was in her 
 agony. * * * * 
 
 A short and incoherent passage in my Journal relates exactly 
 what passed, and on that account I give it in preference to any 
 other description. 
 
 ' Brussels, February 10th, 1843. 
 
 ' As soon as the feeling of exhaustion and suflfocation began, 
 Olga asked for a Priest, and looked anxiously towards the door 
 to see if my brothers were coming. Mr. Selvin,* after some 
 minutes, began the Prayers for the Agonizing. Olga folded lier 
 arms across her breast, and said in a low and fervent voice — " I 
 believe, I love, Ihope,a7idIre;penf;'^ Sbndthen, ^^ForgiYeine . . all 
 of you. God bless you all." A moment afterwards she said, 
 glancing towards a Madonna by Sasso Ferrate near her bed, " I 
 leave my Virgin to Adrian." Then seeing her brothers, she first 
 called Charles, kissed him, and said, " Do love Grod, and be very 
 good." A httle while after she addressed the same words to 
 Fernand, with even more earnestness, and gave him some fare- 
 well messages for the Narishkins. She kissed Marief and 
 Emma, to whom she whispered a few words, and then she turned 
 to her maid and said, " Thank you, Justine.";}: Afterwards she 
 embraced me, and last of all my mother, for whom she seemed to 
 wish to keep her last kiss. 
 
 ' Once more she repeated, " I believe, I love, I hope, I repent. I 
 commendmy soul into Thy hands ! " . . Then came some inar- 
 ticulate efforts at speech. I could only make out the name of 
 Eugenie. It was the last word she uttered. 
 
 ' Father Pilat came in haste, and pronounced over her, at this 
 last moment, the great Indulgence attached to the Scapular. Olga 
 raised her eyes to Heaven. This was her last look, and her last 
 act was to kiss her little Crucifix which was always in her hand, 
 and which she had repeatedly pressed to her hps during that 
 short agony. 
 
 ' Ah ! my God, let that scene always remain present to us ! 
 Notwithstanding the fearful alteration in her features, there was 
 a beaming expression in her face. She was gasping for breath, 
 but as one might be at the moment of winning a race, breathless 
 and weary, yet joyful and triumphant, knowing that very soon 
 the toil will be over, and the crown be won. 
 
 * * * * # 
 
 ^ ' After an hour spent by her side we forced my poor mother 
 to leave the room for some time. We went away with her, and 
 
 * An Irish Priest then staying in the house. f Fernand's wife. 
 
 X The lady'a-maid who nursed her. 
 
 2 F 2 
 
436 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 when we returned, the most consoling change had taken place. 
 All trace of sickness had disappeared, and the room had b* en 
 turned into a chapel, in the centre of which our angel lay asleep, 
 dressed in white and surrounded with flowers. She was looking 
 more beautiful than she had ever done in life. We spent the 
 rest of the day peacefully beside her, feeling almost joyful, 
 praying and weeping indeed, but without any of the bitterness 
 of grief. Our blessed sister departed from this world at one 
 o'clock. At two — and what a shock it gave me — I received a 
 note from NathaUe Narishkin, to say that they were coming to see 
 Olga ! This seemed dreadful at the first moment, but the God 
 of all peace calmed our hearts, and our sister's beloved friends 
 felt as we did the sweetness of praying by that dear and holy 
 body. They could not tear themselves away from the chamber 
 of death, and thus it was that they saw Olga again.' 
 
 At the time when I wrote the above lines, these friends whom 
 Olga had so earnestly wished to see before she died, and whose 
 conversion to her own faith she had yet more earnestly desired, 
 were both members of the Greek Church. They spent the whole t f 
 that first day and also the ensuing night beside her whom they 
 had so dearly loved, praying with my mother, who did now as 
 she had done at Rome when watching my father's mortal re- 
 mains. Motionless beside the corpse, for twenty-four hours, she 
 held her child's hand in her own, keeping away from it all that 
 time the dreadful chill of death. 
 
 Who can tell what passed between those pure and fervent 
 souls in prayer on earth, and the blessed spirits hovering over 
 them ? These mysteries are hidden from us; all we do. know is, 
 that the future realized beyond all hope the desires Olga had 
 carried up with her to Heaven, and both her friends became 
 Catholics. Nathalie, the youngest and best beloved, was called 
 to the highest lot of all, and a few years afterwards put on the 
 habit of the Sisters of S. Yincent de Paul. That habit she has 
 now worn for seventeen years, and I fain would speak of the 
 position she holds in that holy army, and the reverence and 
 affection she inspires within and without its ranks, did I not fear 
 to wound the humility of one who may perhaps peruse these 
 pages. 
 
 Olga's remains were exposed for three days, during which all 
 our friends at Brussels came to pray with us beside her. After- 
 wards the body was carried to Boury, and of the three beloved 
 ones for whom we were in mourning at the same time, she alone 
 went to rest beside Albert in the burial-place intended for us all. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 437 
 
 How vain is all human foresight, both before and beyond the 
 grave.* 
 
 The Pope's Nuncio, Monsignor (now Cardinal) Fornari, had 
 been more than once to help us comfort our dear and patient 
 sufferer, and after death to pray by her remains. Among those 
 who sometimes came with him was a man whose name will 
 perhaps create surprise ; one at that time, comparatively speak- 
 ing, unknown, but who has since acquired a formidable renown. 
 I speak of Vincent Grioberti. I cannot revert in thought to that 
 epoch without thinking of him, nor think of him without bearing 
 witness to a fact which, amidst both the adulation and blame 
 lavished upon him, has been too much overlooked. It was re- 
 hgion which at that time imparted so great a splendour to his 
 talents, and during that sad winter, when we saw so much of 
 him, there were brilliant moments in which his vigorous faith 
 made us grasp and embrace invisible truths with a clearness 
 which eloquence alone could not have brought about. We have 
 seen unbelievers after hearing him, disturbed in their scepticism, 
 and indifferent Catholics going from our drawing-room to kneel 
 before a Priest, and dating their conversion from the day they 
 had met Gioberti. We have seen him turn pale with intense 
 feeling while listening to the account of Ratisbonne's conversion, 
 and shed tears near Olga's lifeless body. And thus it happens 
 that one who has been the subject of so much enthusiasm and so 
 many anathemas, remains connected in our minds with the 
 image of a powerful champion of the truth, of a master in 
 science, of a man capable of the utmost humiliation faith can 
 impose, and accessible to the tenderest emotion which charity 
 can inspire. 
 
 Anger and pride afterwards infused their poison into that life, 
 and the light which might have been so bright and pure became 
 darkened. He was punished for forgetting those words : ' Blessed 
 are the meek, for they shall possess the earth.* May he have ob- 
 tained pardon from Him who also said : ' Blessed are they that 
 hunger and thirst after justice, for they shall he filled,* 
 
 Alexandrine did not leave us after Olga's death. The Princess 
 Lapoukhyn went back to the Ukraine, and she herself wished 
 her daughter to resume her place in the sad family circle from 
 which she had been absent a whole year, and which death so 
 cruelly and rapidly narrowed. Alexandrine therefore remained 
 with my mother and with us for six weeks, and then we all set 
 out together for Paris. Before I left Brussels I received the 
 following letter from M. de Montalembert : — 
 
 * Madame de la Ferronnays is buried in the Churcii of Sant' Andrea delle 
 Fratte, and Eugenie at Lumigny. 
 
43S A ST8TI:R'8 'BTDRY. 
 
 COUNT DE MONTALEMBERT TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Madeira, March 4th, 1843. 
 
 * My Nearest Friends, — I dreaded the worst wlien I left you, 
 but I did not expect that the blow would fall so soon. A letter 
 by the last steamer brought us the news that that lovely and holy 
 Olga is gone to Heaven. All our letters from Paris and Brussels 
 were also full of details, which made us anticipate the approach- 
 ing end of her sufferings , and in the midst of our grief drew 
 from us tears of very sweet sympathy and admiration. Those 
 touching and wonderful words of hers, when asked what she 
 liked to take : " Jesus Christ did not say on the Cross, ' I like,' "* 
 are as a glimpse of Heaven, and lift up even so dull a soul as 
 mine to those glorious regions where, alas ! it is not given me to 
 dwell ! And thus even before a whole year has elapsed, she has 
 followed Eugenie ! One more angel flown from your own happy 
 home — one more angel from the bright group I knew and loved 
 so dearly in former days. Albert, Eugenie, Olga, and their ad- 
 mirable father. Ah ! what a joyful, tender meeting those blessed 
 souls must have had ! And what it must be to think that you are 
 overshadowed by their love, transfigured and intensified as it 
 must be in Heaven ! This must give you strength and comfort in 
 the midst of your anguish. I really know no one in the world 
 who can look up, as you may do, to Heaven, and see there such 
 friends, such guardians, such forerunners. 
 
 ' At the same time, believe me I deeply sympathize with your 
 sufierings under these swift and often-repeated blows, and the 
 ever-recurring comparison between the present and the past, 
 when you possessed everything at once. I like to feel — perhaps 
 presumptuously, but indeed with true sympathy for you — that 
 among all your friends there are not many who appreciate as I 
 do all that you have lost. Have you any who loved Albert 
 better, reverenced and admired Eugenie more, or better under- 
 stood what you all were to one another ? It is now eleven years 
 since I first saw you at the Villa Trecase, in the midst of such 
 delightful happiness ; and from that time I have looked upon you 
 more and more as my own family. And how fond we were of 
 that dear Olga ! I thought her so attractive. Anna and I were 
 always speaking of her since her first appearance in Paris, at a 
 wedding soiree at Madame de Sourches', where she looked so 
 pretty, so modest, so pleasing. Let me say that I feel this last 
 sorrow of yours in a very special way. 
 
 ' And your angehc mother ? I hear that she has been heroic, 
 but that is always the case ; it is like a second nature to her. 
 
 * P. 434. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 There are, and must necessarily be, special and great graces be- 
 stowed on a mother who has given back so mnch to God. In 
 return for those sacrifices, He doubtless gives strength and gene- 
 rosity of soul. Speak to her, I beseech you, of my deep reverence 
 and devoted affection for her. And Alexandrine, is she with 
 you ? I look to her as your comforter in these days of mourning, 
 for she is admirably qualified to perform that part, more, I think, 
 than yourself. She has risen above sorrow. We cannot pity her 
 now, but we can always love her, which I do, and I tell her so 
 through you, my poor afflicted friends. 
 
 * So then death has not spared even that good dear house at 
 Brussels, which I was so fond of, and looked upon as a home ? 
 How often I enjoyed in thought future meetings with you all 
 under its roof. It was there I saw Olga in August with, as it 
 then appeared, a long life before her ; and in October I saw her 
 again, as it has turned out, for the last time. What are you 
 going to do ? Shall we find you in Belgium when we pass 
 through in June ? But all this I shall know before you get this 
 letter, for I will not for a moment suppose that neither you nor 
 Augustus have written to us. We are doubting between Algiers,^ 
 Palermo, and Rome for the winter. All my wishes are for 
 Rome. May you be there, tpo, my dear good friend. Look 
 upon me always as the particular friend of your sorrows, the 
 friend of all whom you have most loved, and most mourn for.' 
 
 Adrian de Mun, whom we always considered as a brother, was 
 the only one not with us at Olga's death ; but, as I have already 
 said, she did not forget him in that solemn hour, and some of the 
 last words she had spoken were a message to him. A more im- 
 perative duty had detained him beside another death-bed. The 
 Marquis de Mun, his father, was now sinking under a disease 
 which had been first brought on by anguish at the loss of his 
 daughter. It might almost be said that his was a nature not in- 
 tended for suffering, and that his trials had been beyond his 
 strength, if we did not know that Grod justly and wisely ordains 
 these mysterious dispensations. But there certainly never was a 
 character which seemed less formed for grief and tears. Open- 
 ness of heart, universal benevolence, the gaiety and grace which 
 belonged to a former generation, joined to a kindness which is 
 always the greatest beauty a mind can possess ; all these delight- 
 ful qualities shone conspicuously in M. de Mun, and gave others 
 that sense of enjoyment in his society which is like sunshine to 
 the soul.* But dark clouds of sorrow had overcast that bright 
 
 * Les Souvenirs de Madame de Montagu, which everybody has read, shows us 
 M. de Mun in his youth such as I have here described him. 
 
440 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 sunshine, and a heart which could not believe in anything but 
 happiness, was doomed to endless tears ! Overflowing with a 
 tenderness almost verging on idolatry for those it loved, it had 
 been forced to part with the object of its dearest afiections, and 
 had now lost even the transient gleam of joy which his son's 
 happiness had imparted. By his side his wife's heart was break- 
 ing, crushed by the same blows, and in a yet more hopeless 
 manner than his own. 
 
 Though since his trials M. de Mun had become more pious 
 than in his youth, he was not much influenced by those super- 
 natural feelings which facilitate prayer and lighten the burthen 
 of life. He was also subject to agitation and fear, which might 
 have rendered the approach of death very painful. But on our 
 arrival at Lumigny we found him not only calm and peaceful, 
 but in a state of mind not always granted to a soul in that solemn 
 moment, even when assisted by grace. I was reading one day to 
 our dying friend the chapter of the Imitation of Christ which 
 speaks of the happiness of Heaven. He stopped me and said, 
 ' I have read that often before, but never understood it, but now 
 I do, my dear child, and I like you to know it.' Then he added 
 with characteristic simplicity, ' You must all be surprised to see 
 me die so bravely, and I did not expect it myself. I believe my 
 dear La Ferronnays has obtained me this grace.' These words 
 were a blessed addition to our treasury of consolations. 
 
 We saw him die with this peaceful courage. To the end his 
 words were all blessings upon his son, or expressions of the 
 most touching afiection and gratitude to his wife and friends. 
 
 My mother and Alexandrine remained several weeks with 
 Mme. de Mun, and afterwards went back together to Boury. 
 Sad as the return was to be, my mother would not yield to the 
 temptation of staying away. She knew, and Alexandrine too, 
 that peace and consolation are not obtained by weakly yielding 
 to our feelings, but by courageously overcoming them. They 
 struggled, therefore, against the painful impression which awaited 
 them in the deserted chateau, and lived there surrounded by the 
 recollections which filled it, without endeavouring to escape from 
 them ; nay, rather finding a sad solace in meeting with remi- 
 niscences of the dear departed at every turn. 
 
 The following letter from my mother, at this period of her 
 sorrowful earthly journey, contains a touching picture of their 
 life:— 
 
 MADAME DE LA FEERONNAYS TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Boury, September 1st, 1843. 
 * My dearly beloved Daughter, — Let me see how long it is 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 441 
 
 since I wrote to you. Looking in my diary I find it is fonr 
 days. A long time, indeed ! Formerly, one letter was scarcely 
 finished before another was begun. Then there was movement 
 and life around me, but what can I do now to get out of the 
 living tomb in which I seem enclosed? I see nothing, hear 
 nothing, think of nothing, and such is the regularity of our 
 convent-like habits that I often have not time to write. This 
 regularity acts like a soothing appHance to the sores of my 
 bruised heart, and Grod knows what sores they are ! Three 
 bleeding wounds lately inflicted, and another yet unhealed and 
 quivering still. If the thought of God were not present to us in 
 the midst Of all our occupations, if He were not Himself the 
 direct object of most of thera^, we should see nothing but death 
 on every side of us. But He gives us strength to live, at least 
 I hope so. 
 
 ' I often pass from one state of mind to another. The other 
 day, as I stood on the entrance steps, I suddenly felt like some- 
 body cast away on a desert island, and I have often that restless- 
 ness of mind which makes us wish to be anywhere but where we 
 are. On the whole, however, I would rather stay here than else- 
 where, for it seems as if in this place I belonged more entirely to 
 all those dear departed ones ; and then there is that beloved 
 chapel, where I hope they sometimes grieve for me, and feel how 
 much I miss their beautiful hymns and Heavenly voices. My 
 dear Alexandrine practises on the organ, which is so kind of her. 
 I am sure she does it to please me, and so it does, for I cling to 
 everything that is like the past, or that can the least remind me 
 of it. Is this weakness or strength ? I cannot tell, but I should 
 be inclined to call it weakness, or perhaps a want of entire 
 resignation. 
 
 * I have not the courage to make a complete sacrifice, and I 
 cling to little things for want of great ones. But I think I may 
 say that the wish to be of some use to those who try to help me 
 has something to do with it. I feel it gives them a little interest 
 and employment. If I were alone it would be another thing. 
 Poor Alexandrine practised yesterday on the organ till near 
 midnight, and this morning played some beautiful things. But 
 where are the voices ? Ah ! nothing can ever bring those back 
 again. 
 
 ' After breakfast I read with Albertine, and then with Alexan- 
 drine. Then Albertine brings me her historical note-books. I make 
 her practise ; then I go to my own room ; afterwards I devote 
 myself to the arranging of my letters,* and then the time flies. 
 
 * The whole of her husband's letters to herself were collected and arranged 
 in two thick volumes. 
 
442 A SISTER'S STOBT. 
 
 But I must hurry over that business, for I have enough to last me 
 a long while. At four o'clock in the afternoon I go to the ceme- 
 tery, and for a little while to the chapel ; then comes dinner, then a 
 visit to Louise Thiars, or other poor people, and then we meet in the 
 drawing-room, where we are reading aloud the life of S. Francis of 
 Assisi. Then come night prayers, then afterwards tea and bed- 
 time. It is when I am quite alone in my room that I feel ner- 
 vous tremors, which keep me awake. The sense of sohtude be- 
 comes so overpowering, that I should perhaps never be able to 
 sleep at all if I did not think those precious ones were still about 
 me, watching over my rest. We shall, I think, stay as we are, 
 at all events till the 1st of November, and perhaps longer, if the 
 weather is fine. 
 
 * My dear child, I like to think that you will have fine weather 
 for your sea-bathing. This time last year we were at Blanken- 
 burg. If only the weather had been as it is now ! But no, she 
 was ill, and had even then the pain in her side .... 
 
 ' I constantly feel as if I were for the first time hearing of these 
 calamities. Each time I think of them it is as if a fresh blow 
 were struck on my heart — that poor heart which beats so fast 
 both night and day ! 
 
 ' It is four o'clock, and they are come in for the letters. I love 
 you with all my heart, my darling, and yoor husband, too. I miss 
 you both every minute. ' 
 
 There are souls whom grief embitters or hardens into a cold 
 reserve. This letter is a proof that my mother's strong, gentle 
 character was not of this description. After all her trials she 
 remained exactly what she was before. Their effect upon Alexan- 
 drine, and the change wrought in her by the accumulated sorrows 
 of the last two years, and especially by Eugenie's death, remains 
 to be told. 
 
 * Excelsior ! ' 
 
 Seven years had now passed since Albert's death. Seven years 
 since Alexandrine had begun that story of their love and their life 
 which had been during all that time her dearest occupation. It was 
 now finished, and the last pages had been written during her sad 
 stay in Brussels. Olga was dying by her side on the day this 
 long work was brought to a conclusion. Towards its close it 
 had revived the most heart-rending recollections. And now in 
 the space of one year she had lost, first, Eugenie, the gentle and 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 443 
 
 perfect companion of her sorrow, who, next to Albert, had exer- 
 cised the sweetest and most powerful influence over her life ; then 
 my fkther, whom she loved with a filial affection ; and, lastly, her 
 own brother, whose death grieved her deeply, and the more so, 
 because it was not attended by the consolation which had hallowed 
 the closing scenes of those other death-beds. In the midst of all 
 these sorrows, which carried away one after another ' the frag- 
 ments of her shattered happiness,' she brought to a close, as I 
 have already said, the record of her past joys. It was ended^ and 
 from that time forward she would have found it impossible to 
 pursue any similar occupation. It would have given her none of 
 the consolation and pleasure which had made it hitherto delight- 
 ful. Her character, her mind, her whole life, seemed raised above 
 earthly joys and consolations, and her way of looking at the past 
 underwent also a change. She still thought of Albert, and loved 
 him with the same love; but in a certain sense she ceased to 
 grieve for him. A sudden and clear view of the blessedness of 
 those who mourn seems to have been vouchsafed to her. This 
 was no doubt the earthly reward of her unmurmuring submission 
 to God's will, even during the first days of her grief. Resig- 
 nation had then been an act of faith, and often a very difiicult 
 and painful duty. But at the close of that year, marked by so 
 many sorrows and so many graces, she seemed to realize what 
 hitherto she had only believed. I cannot otherwise account for 
 the blessed change which took place in her, and which I would 
 fain ascribe to the blessed influence of those departed souls who 
 had been such gentle and tender friends to her in fife ! 
 
 And thus I found during the sorrowful days we passed to- 
 gether, that Alexandrine had none of those fits of depression 
 which she had such difficulty formerly in overcoming. I had not 
 now to comfort her. She had become herself the comforter of 
 others, and, as M. de Montalembert had justly said, ' She had 
 now risen higher than grief.' Many a time a word from her 
 gave me fresh courage; a word spoken with tears, indeed, but 
 with a peaceful serenity which imparted strength. On the day 
 that Olga had received Extreme Unction, notwithstanding the 
 Heavenly peace that had attended that touching scene, I felt quite 
 overcome when I had left her room, and Alexandrine found me 
 weeping bitterly. She did not try to stop my tears, and stood 
 looking at me without speaking. I looked up, and, ! what 
 an expression there was in her face ! Of more than fortitude, of 
 more than peace, almost of joy. At last she said, ' You weep 
 because our dear Olga is going to Heaven, and now that she has 
 all but left this world you would bring her back ! What hap- 
 piness then can you promise her on earth ? ' These words were the 
 
444 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 expression of a clear and simple truth. But the manner in which 
 they were spoken and their effect upon me I have never forgotten. 
 She often said things, the full force of which it is difficult to con- 
 vey to those who have not heard them ; but I must try as best I 
 can to reproduce the impression they made upon myself. 
 
 We have seen Alexandrine at Boury three months after the 
 death of Olga. My mother's letter described them in that deso- 
 late chateau during those melancholy days. Alexandrine seeking 
 to awaken on the organ a feeble plaintive echo of the melodies they 
 both had loved, and my mother striving to give her the pleasure of 
 feeling that she had succeeded in cheering her. This is not, 
 perhaps, the saddest of the recollections which live in my 
 memory, but it affects me more deeply than any other. Are not 
 love and pity, when in unison, the tenderest chords in the heart ? 
 
 That autumn did not elapse without new trials, for the Prin- 
 cess Lapoukhyn, who had returned to the Ukraine, fell danger- 
 ously ill at Korsen, and for several days Alexandrine expected to 
 receive the news of her mother's death. She wrote to me then 
 a follows : — 
 
 * I am very little inclined to write, Pauline, but I must write to 
 you. Your dear mother has told you everything. She is so kind 
 to me. I love her more than ever. She is such a help, such a 
 comfort to me. Pauline, that Cross which I have always appre- 
 hended, is now drawing near, touching me, perhaps at this very 
 moment laid upon me. My mother's death, and her dying a 
 Protestant, appears so likely, that I have scarcely a hope that it 
 will not happen. To-morrow I shall perhaps know something 
 positive. You pray, do you not, and you get prayers for that 
 beloved mother, — that dear, tender mother, so passionately fond of 
 me ? Ah ! God may have been jealous of my love for her — 
 perhaps I loved her too much ! Everything I possess, every- 
 thing I see around me are gifts from her, often very simple gifts, 
 for, to her great regret, I would not now let her make me costly 
 presents. What I have suffered during the last week has been a 
 new kind of grief to me. How right I was to say that we did 
 not know what might happen in two months' time. ! please, 
 please, do not be glad nor sorry again for anything beforehand. 
 Perhaps by this time she is dead, this beloved, beautiful, good, 
 sweet, and poor — ^oor mother of mine ! Father de Ravignan 
 tells me he is convinced she will recover ; and they all bid me 
 take comfort in the thought that she is in good faith. Alas ! 
 these were the consolations that were given me at the time of my 
 brother's death, and now they are again brought forward in my 
 mother's case. ! Pauhne, never complain of anything unless 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 445 
 
 you see one you love die without being converted, or something 
 of the same kind ! 
 
 ' In your letter of the day before yesterday, you say of your- 
 self, " After having gone through everything most afflict- 
 ing. . . ." 0, my dear love, believe me there are sadder 
 things than deaths visibly blessed ! ! what is now going on 
 at Korsen ? She suffers so much, and without the powerful aid 
 our faith affords. 
 
 ' I have just received your dear affectionate letter. Thanks, 
 my dearest. God is love, and He deals with us mercifully, and 
 never tries us beyond our strength. I have experienced once 
 more how useful trials are, so do not let us be afraid of Crosses. 
 Mamma is admirably resigned and good ; she writes to me that 
 she is sure this trial has been sent for her salvation and to make 
 her better. 
 
 ' What wonderful helps God gives us ! I feel able to breathe, 
 and to breathe freely. I was so happy to see Adrian again, who 
 was most affectionate, and Father de Ravignan, who did me 
 unspeakable good. Ah ! if only my poor mother could know 
 8uch help as that. My dear love, my kind friends, pray all of 
 you, and get prayers for me.' 
 
 One of Alexandrine's prayers was granted, and she soon had 
 the happiness to hear of her mother's recovery, but this anxiety, 
 which had followed upon so many other sorrows, and her very 
 thankfulness, mixed as it was with the pain of an earnest and 
 unfulfilled desire, gave, I imagine, a tangible form to an idea 
 which had hitherto only just crossed her mind. It was the same 
 thought which Alphonse Ratisbonne put into words when he 
 said, ' I cannot give God less than all." It took possession of 
 Alexandrine, and for the space of a year greatly disturbed her 
 peace. I shall not dwell long upon this part of her life, for I am 
 not thoroughly acquainted with its details. This state of mind, 
 or it may be this spiritual trial, was not of a kind to be spoken of 
 by letter. The very importance of the question in itself would 
 have forbidden it. Alexandrine thought, as she afterwards told 
 me, in explaining her silence on this subject, that ' when God 
 sows a seed in a soul, it should be left untouched even as a seed 
 put into the ground, for otherwise neither the one nor the other 
 can bring forth fruit.' 
 
 The Abbe Gerbet, to whom Alexandrine would naturally have 
 opened her mind in this difficulty, was absent ; a circumstance 
 which added another void to the many blanks which the events 
 of that year had created around her. But the merciful Hand of 
 God was extended over His child. She had lost, indeed, the holy 
 
44-5 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 guide, the incomparable friend who had directed the first steps of 
 her Cathohc life with so much gentleness and authority ; who had 
 poured Heavenly balm into her bruised heart, and at the same 
 time revived its latent energy. But another guide was now given 
 her in his stead, who might perhaps have seemed to her severe, if 
 she had known him in the days when earthly regret in some 
 measure withheld her heart from God, but who now exactly met 
 the actual wants of her soul, raised and strengthened as it was by 
 impulses already received. Her first director had taught her 
 to walk, the second helped her to ascend; both were the instru- 
 ments and messengers of God, but it was given to each of them 
 to correspond with the needs of the hour in which they were sent. 
 In the first, Alexandrine found a father and a Saint ; in the second, 
 an Angel. 
 
 We have seen and known him, and I am not afraid of being 
 thought exaggerated in using this word by many who have pre- 
 served in their hearts and memory the indelible image of Father 
 de Ravignan's look, voice, and manner, and who remembered the 
 influence he exercised over all within his reach. He was un- 
 doubtedly a great and fascinating orator, but it was not his 
 eloquence that won souls. There are ordinary phrases, a thou- 
 sand times repeated without producing any efiect, which, when he 
 uttered them, seemed to be heard for the first time. For instance, 
 I heard him say one day, not in the pulpit, but at a little meeting 
 for charitable purposes, ' Life is nothing ! ' and I can only say 
 that the expression and tone of voice which accompanied these 
 words were enough to make them a most eloquent sermon upon 
 the misery and vanity of this world. 
 
 It cannot be wondered at that such teaching as this should have 
 inspired Alexandrine with a thought consonant to her fervour, 
 but which the sequel proved, led her beyond what God required. 
 Nor can it be a matter of reproach that she should have committed 
 the generous mistake of thinking she was called upon to leave all 
 things for Him. But when such a mistake has been made, not 
 through excitement or pride, but from a simple excess of zeal or 
 love, the error should be humbly recognized, and the ordinary 
 path resumed without hesitation or discouragement. It may 
 happen that an increase of holiness, and a greater facility in over- 
 coming the obstacles of the road, show that in leaving it awhile 
 for a higher path, the soul has sufiered no detriment, but on the 
 contrary, has in that circuitous way been brought nearer to its 
 end. This was the case with Alexandrine. After spending some 
 time at the Catechumenate of the Congregation of the Filles 
 de Sion, then just founded by Alphonse Ratisbonne, she left 
 it by Father de Ravignan's advice. The trial had been made 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 447 
 
 with, liis consent, but he would not allow lier to pursue it further. 
 She wrote to me on the second of January, 1845 : — 
 
 ' My beloved Sister, — I write to wish you every best blessing, 
 both for yourself and for every one you love, and to tell you that at 
 this very moment I am returning to our dearest mother, to resume, 
 or rather to learn,* my sweet part of Buth. What do you say to 
 this ? Grod brings us together again, and my joy is very great, 
 I love you all, more even than I thought I did. I am going to 
 give your dear mother a surprise, which will, I hope, make up 
 for the last I gave her.' 
 
 My mother's joy was indeed very great, though she had made, 
 with her usual courage, a sacrifice which she was soon, alas ! 
 called upon to renew in another and severer form. Before Alex- 
 andrine went to make trial of the religious life, the fear of not 
 doing everything in God's service within her strength, had become 
 a continual anxiety, and she was only freed from this torment 
 when experience had shown her the measure of her strength. It 
 was therefore no doubt as wise to allow her to make the trial as 
 it was prudent to put a stop to it before another step in that path 
 — the highest of all, but to which she was not called — had injured 
 her health, without profiting her soul. She therefore returned to 
 my mother with a simplicity equal to the courage with which slie 
 had left her ; and, moreover, with a joyful heart, for the anxious 
 feelings which had so long haunted her, were set at rest for ever. 
 A week after her return she wrote to me : — 
 
 ' Paris, January 14th, 1845. 
 ' My beloved Sister, — How I thank you for your dear letter. 
 You have been so very good about all this. We shall now be 
 more united than ever. At any rate, this is what I feel, and your 
 mother is so delightfully kind to me. I still feel bewildered, as if 
 I had been in a storm, and it was going down by degrees. I 
 return quietly, but with rapture, to my parish work. I have 
 found M. Esbelin, who is working harder than ever among our 
 poor ; but, O ! my dear friend, what a favour from God it is to 
 meet with such a man as Father de Ravignan ! I cannot write 
 to you very fully just now, for I am like somebody who is awaking 
 from a long dream. I do hope this has been my hest Cross. ! 
 darling, let us cast ourselves on Him Who wishes us to be quite 
 
 * The original, ' reprendre ou plut6t apprendre ' loses its point in the trans- 
 lation.— Translator. 
 
448 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 little children. It is wonderful how He guides all things, and 
 only lays upon us as much as we can carry. Why are we so 
 impatient, and why lose in that way the mo^t precious part of our 
 trials ? for they end sooner than we expect. My dear, good, 
 lovely sister, you are not without your own troubles, but I shall 
 soon share them mth you. How pleasant it will be ! I should 
 like to be lodged in some little garret in your house, so as to be 
 under the same roof with you. We always wish for the most 
 perfect things in this imperfect world, which is often a fault, and 
 it makes us unhappy. What does Augustus say about my recent 
 folhes ? I should certainly have died there by inches. Now my 
 heart and pulse beat naturally again. And you, darling, how are 
 you ? ! I love you so much, and I will love you more than 
 ever ! There is nothing else to care for, and it leads to every- 
 thing else. Good-bye till we meet, my dearest. I think your 
 kindness will rejoice at finding my old self again in this letter, 
 and that you will recognize in it your Alexandrine. You judge 
 me very correctly, my dear sister. God reward you for your 
 affection. Pray for your poor old worldling, who is much more 
 worldly than you are ! ' 
 
 My judgment of Alexandrine was that she liked retirement, 
 but had a natural repugnance to a cloistered life, and that to a 
 certain point freedom of action and independence were as neces- 
 sary to her spiritual and mental, as to her physical well-being. 
 She became convinced of this after that humble and earnest ex- 
 periment, which obliged her to retrace her steps, but which did 
 not in the least impede her ultimate progress. On her return to 
 her home, and to what she called her parish duties, she set to 
 work with more zeal and devotedness than ever. She had loved 
 the poor, as she had loved her God, from her childhood ; but 
 these two great loves had gone on increasing with her growth in 
 Catholic faith, hope, and charity. And now she gave up to them 
 everything she could give in this world — her thoughts, her time, 
 her means, her health, and in the end, her life. 
 
 At that moment, in Paris, an immense development of good 
 works had taken place, inspired by a charity which did not allow 
 any variety of misery or need to go unaided. This movement 
 has been so energetically seconded by thousands of zealous spirits 
 and active workers, that we may almost say that by this time it 
 embraces every kind of suffering in that immense city. Alexan- 
 drine joined that great body of volunteers in the cause of charity 
 who follow everywhere in France the regular army arrayed under 
 
A SISTER'S 8T0RT. 449 
 
 the banner of S. Vincent de Paul, the father of the poor and the 
 leader of all who love them. Vincent de Paul, that name beloved 
 by those w^ho seem to love nothing, reverenced by those who 
 seem to reverence nothing, and which cannot be insulted without 
 arousing the indignation even of the ungodly, who join with 
 Christians in crying shame upon the blasphemers of charity. 
 She enrolled herself in these blessed ranks, where women as well 
 as men have their allotted places. Many of her associates are still 
 living, and bear witness to the brave and gentle virtues of their 
 beloved companion. 
 
 Though up to the end of her life Alexandrine seldom wrote 
 without saying something worthy of being preserved, I shall 
 not have many whole letters of hers to transcribe in future, 
 for her time for letter- writing was over, and I am come to that 
 period of her life which I mentioned at the beginning of her 
 story. It no lenger suited Alexandrine to sit for whole hours at 
 her table, lost in sweet or painful thought, gathering up carefully 
 every memorial of the past endeared by joy, love, or sorrow, and 
 inevitably making herself the chief actor in these scenes. She no 
 longer wrote to me or to others in order to converse in an intimate 
 and perhaps somewhat self-indulgent strain. Her letters now 
 became short and concise. She did not revert to the past ; she 
 did not dwell on her own feelings ; she scarcely spoke at all of 
 herself. Bravely and cheerfully she wrote, and with an ever- 
 increasing tenderness for her friends. Though she was very 
 calm, and now seldom gave way to emotion, she seemed to have 
 a desire to act, to hasten on, to finish what she had to do, as if 
 she felt that time was short, and her earthly course drawing 
 towards its end. 
 
 Since the foregoing year our destination had again been changed, 
 and the fluctuations of diplomacy had now brought us to Germany. 
 We lived sometimes in Carlsruhe, but more habitually at Baden, 
 and it was there that I saw Alexandrine for the first time after 
 that trial which she had called ' her best Cross.' She came to 
 spend with us part of the -fiummer of 1845, and during that 
 time I was able myself to judge of the heights to which her soul 
 had been gradually rising, and of the purposes I have just 
 described. 
 
 Instead of the ' garret ' that she had vsdshed to inhabit in our 
 house, we had, of course, prepared a pretty room, which I had 
 been at some pains to arrange for her ; but as soon as she took 
 possession of it, I was compelled, to please her, to take every- 
 thing ornamental out of it. She was only satisfied when the 
 room became again as simple and common-looking as possible, 
 and had lost all appearance of elegance. She laughed, and was 
 
 2 G 
 
450 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 surprised herself at the disUke which she now felt for all the 
 little luxuries with which she had formerly taken delight. The 
 strange part of it was, and she always said so, that this was not 
 the result of any effort or sacrifice on her part. She no longer 
 cared for any of the things that she had formerly liked ; but at 
 the bottom of this self-denial, which cost her so little, there was, 
 however, something besides a mere change in her tastes and 
 habits, something also besides an austere disgust for the super- 
 fluities of this world (an austerity which never belonged to her 
 character). There was in it, beyond all, and above all, a love 
 for the poor, which had become so strong, that she wished to 
 deprive herself of everything for their sake, and even in a 
 measure to assimilate her condition to theirs, which is another of 
 the tendencies of love. Though she was only going to spend a 
 few weeks at Baden, she found out a great number of poor, so 
 that her time was almost as fully occupied there as at Paris. 
 
 Every morning, before Mass, she went out laden with the 
 things she was going to take to them, and in the afternoon she 
 found that more than one visit of the same kind had to be paid, 
 from which she never allowed herself to be deterred either by 
 heat, rain, fatigue, or length of distance. That business once 
 ended, it was her delight to study her favourite books, to mark 
 particular passages, and make extracts from them. We know 
 by this time what sort of books they were. Generally speaking, 
 those only fixed her attention in which God occupied the first, if 
 not the only place. She would sometimes also glance over poems 
 read in other days with Albert, and liked to look out his 
 favourite passages. As to other purely literary works ; novels, 
 biographies, or histories, which formed the subject of conversa- 
 tion around her, and at one time would have interested herself, 
 she no longer cared for them in the least. The taste she had 
 once had for these intellectual amusements and luxuries, had as 
 completely vanished as her relish for the ornaments and amuse- 
 ments of the world, music only excepted. 
 
 One day during that summer we found ourselves accidentally 
 at the Hotel d'Angleterre. Those who know Baden are aware 
 that from one of the balconies of this hotel all that takes place 
 on the promenade below can be seen and heard. We were sit- 
 ting there at the close of the evening, listening to the band 
 playing (and playing admirably) a waltz. Numerous groups 
 were strolling about the walks, or resting under the trees, and 
 seen thus at a distance everything had that joyous appearance 
 which a great assemblage of people in the open air and on a 
 beautiful summer evening is apt to present ; indeed, it is one of 
 those outward impressions which awaken in the hearts of the 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 451 
 
 young that exuberant sense of gaiety and life which is not always 
 free from danger. A few years before, Alexandrine would have 
 carefully shunned every sight of the kind, both from the bitter 
 regret it would have been likely to arouse, as well as from a 
 dread of finding herself alive to any kind of worldly enjoyment. 
 Knowing this to have been the case, I asked her on the day I 
 am speaking of, what impression those festive sounds, which re- 
 minded me so much of former days, made upon her. She 
 replied, with a quiet smile, that she did not think of those days any 
 longer, and she sat on for some time looking sometimes at the 
 promenade, and sometimes at the starry sky, with an expression 
 I occasionally observed in her face, and which made it quite 
 beautiful. As I write now, I see her just as I saw her then, 
 with that look which I find it difficult to describe, and impossible 
 to forget. She continued thus for a moment, then, taking out of 
 her pocket a little book in which she was in the habit of writing 
 any passage which struck her, she said, ' Here is something 
 really beautiful, interesting, and important.' And she read me 
 the following words in Latin (S. Augustine's, I believe), ' ! 
 amare. 0! ire! 0! sibi perire ! ! ad Deum pervenire.' 
 
 Never can I forget the expression with which she uttered 
 these words, nor the time, the place, or the day when I heard 
 them. But I feel that it is all but impossible to convey to others 
 the efiect they made upon me. What has been said, however, 
 may give some idea of the nature of the change which had taken 
 place in her soul; a change which was only the gradual and 
 complete triumph of that great love which, without excluding 
 any one of the lesser loves which flow from it, can alone suffice 
 to fill the heart. 
 
 Soon after that day Alexandrine left me, and the following 
 passages are extracts from the letters which I received from 
 her : — 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 * I fancy you have already very much got over the first gloomy 
 impression which Germany produced upon you. I expect that 
 you will meet there with a thousand little agreeable adventures, 
 and I think of my Paule travelling about gathering honey as she 
 goes from every little flower. We must allow ourselves to be 
 moved about like pieces of furniture. I have tried it myself, and 
 find it rather pleasant. See on this subject what I have copied 
 from S. Francis de Sales, " If you are caught in the net of tribu- 
 lation, do not look at your soi'roiu, hut look at God and leave all to 
 Him.'^ How much generosity there is in those words : Look not 
 at your sorrow ; and he repeats constantly what your dear father 
 
 2 G 2 
 
A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 always used to say, ^^ Lasciamo fare a Dio."* ! Pauline! we 
 should be very happy if we could feel thus. When will you give 
 yourself up unreservedly to God ? When will you believe thai 
 He, who loves us more than we can love ourselves ; that He who 
 counts the very hairs of our head, and without whose permission 
 the least of those hairs which we despise (however much we 
 idolize ourselves) does not fall ; when will you believe that He 
 orders everything for us in the tenderest, most perfect way pos- 
 sible ? ^^Man moves and God leads him.^* We must, therefore, do 
 all we can, and especially all we ought, and leave the result to 
 God. This is what I am always advised to do, and this is the 
 only means of getting out of that sort of worry which is almost 
 as bad as sin, because ^^ Non est in commotione I)ommus.''f That 
 text of the Bible was our dear Eugenie's favourite saying. 
 
 ' I do not practise what I preach, but I have quite decided to 
 come to it by dint of labour, for I am convinced that, as S. 
 Francis de Sales says, ^^ Anxiety of muid is the wm-st of all evils 
 except sin ! *' I shall fight against it to the knife, in whatever 
 shape it comes, whether in consequence of some great blunder, 
 or some great fault, or after a Cross. Ah ! in this life so full of 
 tears, there is only one kind of happiness possible and intended 
 by God, Who left it behind Him when He ascended into Heaven, 
 and that is Peace. Let us not, then, deprive ourselves of it by 
 our own folly. Ask God that by His grace I may be victorious 
 in this struggle, and I will ask the same for you. Let us both 
 have the courage to be happy, and accustom ourselves to look at 
 all things, great and small, as directly coming to us from God's 
 Hands. This holy precept is impressed on my mind. Would I 
 had it stamped on my heart, and on every action of my life ! 
 
 ' Peace is so necessary on account of the impossibility of 
 achieving anything good without it, that to establish its dominion 
 in our hearts, we are sometimes told for a while to sacrifice even 
 greater things to obtain it. There is a time for everything. Wo 
 must allow our souls to ripen by degrees under the rays of that 
 Divine Sun, who requires of us only to bask in His rays. When 
 we give our will, we give everything. Let us give it up to God, 
 and let Him do with us what He will, without thinking any more 
 about ourselves. It is the pleasantest way of reaching the 
 degree of perfection God has in view for us. I have been 
 preaching to myself in a way that I hope will be profitable, 
 and I ought to thank you for having given me the opportunity. 
 My good old darling, as you liked my extracts, and I like this way 
 of communicating my favourite ideas, I am going to copy some- 
 thing else for you, and also to beg you to read immediately, in 
 * Let us leave it to God to do. f 3 Kings xix. 11. [Vulgate.] 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 453 
 
 the Spanish book which I am returning to you, the twenty-sixth 
 chapter of S. Theresa's " Way of Perfection," and tell me if it 
 is not charming. 
 
 ' And now here is an extract from S. Francis de Sales : — " As 
 our heart expands, or, to speak more accurately, as we allow it 
 to be expanded, that God may empty it as He desires. His mercy 
 is shed abroad in our souls, and His inspirations, which are always 
 more powerful in proportion as we co-operate with them, increase 
 Divine love in us." 
 
 ' Why, therefore, should not our love be as fervent as the love 
 of S. Augustine, S. Francis, S. Catherine, &c. ? 
 
 * yes, dearest, we shall be very intimate throughout Eternity 
 with Eugenie, and with Olga, and with many dear friends, and 
 with many new friends also, of whose number we shall neither 
 weary nor be jealous. 
 
 * Ah ! my Paule, I have heard many encouraging things. Let 
 us, therefore, put away all trouble, and, being carried on by the 
 full tide of grace, push forward without dwelling too much on 
 our faults. It is bold of me to say this, but I think I am right. 
 I have read, and read over again, so many peace-giving things, 
 that I begin to know them just a little tiny bit by heart. 
 
 * I heard a magnificent sermon by Father Lacordaire at Saint 
 Roch, on The Two Worlds of Enjoyment and Expiation. He spoke of 
 the necessity of expiation, either by entering religious life, or in 
 the world by almsgiving, and of the extraordinary folly of those 
 who, from their horror of suffering, wish to prevent their neigh- 
 bours also from expiating their own and others' sins. At the end 
 of his discourse his countenance became very animated, and, in a 
 majestic manner, he denounced the people who cast out those 
 who devote themselves voluntarily to expiation for mankind. 
 
 ' We shall never have trust enough in God's goodness to 
 us, and you know well that " Chi tutto spera, ttitto ottiene.^^* 
 You see that it is only by preaching that I can answer 
 your appeal, which touches me very much, and gratifies 
 both my love and my sisterly pride. But apropos of preach- 
 ing, the best thing I can do is to tell you some of the things 
 which I have heard from Madame Swetchine. She said the other 
 day that we ought not to find fault with life, that it was very 
 beautifal, more and more beautiful, happy, and interesting. And 
 yet that gentle and pious woman is overwhelmed by mental and 
 physical suffering ; disease of the heart and liver, and want of 
 sleep, followed by such weariness as you can hardly imagine. 
 She also said to me, " I like whatever comes." And the way in 
 which she explains this shows that she is indeed " the drop of 
 * He who hopes all obtains all. 
 
454 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 water drowned in an ocean of sweets" of which S. Francis de 
 Sales speaks, and this is what makes her see that all that happens 
 and is, is for the best. Ah ! to feel this is to be in the waj of trnth. 
 * What can be more delightful than to be in perfect harmony 
 with everything that proceeds from the Divine source of love and 
 happiness ? But our infirmity falls short of our convictions, and 
 we complain, feeling all the time that it is wrong to complain. 
 It is not any particular desire — even were it too ardent — but a 
 generally repining spirit, which would be likely to make your 
 prayers less pleasing to God. He does so like us to be always 
 contented. Madame Swetchine says, "I was bor7i happy!'' Yet 
 trials have certainly not been wanting to her. You will forgive 
 my repeating all this, for you love me, and I love you ; but I 
 assure you that God helps ns immensely when we on onr side 
 make little eflPorts to please Him. O ! dearest sister, would that 
 my letter could give you joy and courage ! How much I wish 
 it! You do not know how I love you; you will only know it in 
 Heaven. Here there is not time to love, and yet we do. For my 
 part, I never loved you all so much.' 
 
 Alexandrine spent the winter of 1846 at Madame de Mun's 
 house, who found the greatest comfort in her society. She often 
 said that the mere sight of her was like a sunbeam to her sad 
 heart. Alexandrine had tried to induce her to adopt her own 
 active life of charity, not because she was doing no good, for she 
 did a great deal in her way, but because she thought Madame de 
 Mun would find in it some of the strength and power of enjoy- 
 ment she herself had derived from it, and by that means would 
 shake ofi* the moral and physical depression which, together with 
 age and suffering, made every exertion difficult and painful. It 
 was with a melancholy smile that she sometimes complained that 
 Alexandrine seemed to do with delight what she accomplished 
 with great effort, and that once in particular when they went 
 together to the Hospital Beaujon, and she was feeling more 
 sad and depressed than usual, she tnrned round, and was 
 surprised to see Alexandrine with her eyes sparkling, and 
 her whole countenance so full of joy, that any one would have 
 thought she was going to a party of pleasure. It was, however, 
 impossible to feel more deeply for the sorrows of those she visited, 
 and big tears used to roll down her cheeks by the side of those 
 beds she so gladly attended. But her sense of the honour and 
 happiness of ministering to the poor was so intense, that she 
 found in it a true and keen enjoyment equal to anything she had 
 called by that name, at a time when earth seemed to be promising 
 her all she could desire or ask I remember an instance of this 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 455 
 
 which she mentioned to me as we were coming out of a garret 
 where she used to visit a poor family, who, in the midst of the 
 most terrible destitution, afforded a remarkable example of resig- 
 nation and pious courage. The husband was a young house- 
 painter, who had fallen from a scaffolding, and was thus rendered 
 lame and infirm for life. His wife was dying of consumption, 
 and their only child of eleven or twelve years of age, instead of 
 being able to assist them, was sickly and an idiot. These poor 
 people were often visited and relieved by Father Lacordaire. 
 He had mentioned them to Alexandrine, who had ever since taken 
 the utmost interest in them. She used often to carry them food, 
 &c., but said that she went chiefly to learn from them lessons of 
 patience under suffering. One day, as she was leaving this 
 wretched abode, she happened to hear the sound of music. It 
 was merely a military band passing through the streets, but it 
 seemed in keeping with her inward feeling of joy, and gave her 
 BO strange a sensation of happiness that she did not remember to 
 have experienced anything equal to it in her happiest days. 
 
 That sort of joy in assisting the poor was indeed habitual with 
 her, and it may be remembered that she felt it six years before 
 by the death-bed of the young Priest at Ischl. Her wish to help 
 the poor was so ardent that when success attended her efforts, 
 she felt as if it were her place to be grateful to them, and her 
 manner expressed that feeling. This lent a rare and peculiar 
 charm to her charitable ministrations. 
 
 Alexandrine joined us at Baden in the course of the following 
 summer, after she had been at Liege for the Jubilee, which she 
 very much enjoyed, in spite of considerable fatigue. She wrote 
 me this note from Liege : — 
 
 ' After the journey we had to dine with the Bishop, and then 
 came Vespers and the sermons in the evening. I had only four 
 hours' sleep to prepare myself for the fatigue of attending the 
 beautiful services of the next day, for several hours together. 
 But the sermon from the Bishop of Langres (Monseigneur 
 Parisis), would have been enough m itself to repay me for 
 coming to Liege. It was enough to convert every Protestant in 
 the world, and to reduce them to silence without leaving them 
 even the possibility of a " hut.^^ 
 
 'Yesterday we heard Father de Ravignan and the Abbe 
 Dupanloup, and 1 assure you that neither of them suffered by 
 comparison with the other. How I looked forward to the plea- 
 sant "/ar niente " which awaits me with you at Baden, for I love 
 you more than ever.' 
 
 Alexandrine passed a part of the summer at Baden. She had 
 
456 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 the pleasure of meeting there the friend of her early youth — 
 Madame Wolff, that other Pauline to whom, in spite of time and 
 absence, she had remained tenderly attached. During those short 
 visits to Germany she enjoyed the society of Count Putbus, who 
 always came to see her, and also that of many of the friends she 
 had known at Berlin. Amongst them was M. de Radowitz, 
 whom she saw at Carlsruhe with very special pleasure. I can- 
 not write that dear and honoured name without dwelling for a 
 moment on a remembrance not exactly connected, perhaps, with 
 this narrative, but which I cannot pass over in silence. 
 
 M. de Radowitz had just lost his only daughter, who died at 
 sixteen, in the full bloom of her youth, intelligence, and beauty. 
 My husband and I had spent the last days and nights of her 
 short and fatal illness with him and by her side. This mutual 
 grief served to confirm the valued friendship which filled so great 
 a place in our lives, and of which I would fain leave a record in 
 these pages. 
 
 Some years afterwards, when M. de Radowitz was a member 
 of the Parliament of Frankfort, he was described in an unfriendly 
 spirit, as the 'warlike monk ' [der kriegerische Monch], and I 
 have always thought the name had a very applicable and glorious 
 meaning. There certainly was something of the monk in that 
 great man ; somewhat of the monk's faith, knowledge, purity of 
 heart, and daily life ; that long-continued habit of contemplating 
 Divine mysteries with the eye of a Christian, and then boldly 
 diving into the deepest recesses of the human mind. He had 
 also the courage and the energy of a soldier, and a love for the 
 art of war, almost equal to his passion for study. This man, who 
 had read everything and forgotten nothing, used to declare that 
 he had no knowledge except of military affairs ! 
 
 He was married to a woman thoroughly worthy of him. This 
 was the great and only happiness of his life, and with the excep- 
 tion of that immense blessing, he suffered from or because of 
 everything he loved ; through Germany, his beloved Fatherland, 
 through the Church, more beloved even than Germany, — 
 through his king, for whom his feelings were more those of a 
 friend than a subject, — ^and through his beloved children — for all 
 these were made sources of affliction to him. 
 
 A year after his daughter's death another was born, and his 
 fatherly heart clung to her with all the passionate fondness which 
 had made him so deeply feel the ruin of his first-cherished hopes ; 
 but this unexpected happiness proved only another mysterious 
 trial, for in little more than a year this second child died. To 
 these bereavements succeeded numberless bitter sorrows, which 
 soon brought him to the rest of his Eternal Home. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 457 
 
 A letter whicli he wrote me at the time of that last affliction is 
 worth publication. Those who have known and loved M. de 
 Radowitz will read it with emotion, and his name was famous 
 enough at one time to make anything from his pen generally 
 interesting. It will corroborate what I have said, and furnish an 
 excuse for this digression, the only one I have allowed myself in 
 the course of my narrative. While speaking of a year fraught 
 with the remembrance of this dear friend, I could not resist the 
 desire of paying a tribute to the memory of a man who was 
 great in abilities, great in nobleness of soul, and possessed the 
 excellent gift of making those he associated with better in mind 
 and heart through the influence of his own virtue and genius. 
 
 * Berlin, July 5th, 1850. 
 
 * My dear Friend, — I have just received the excellent letter 
 you sent me to Erfurth. I never for an instant doubted that 
 your heart was with us during the sorrowful hours we have lately 
 gone through ; but I own that I felt a craving to hear from you 
 the expressions of affection and sympathy in our grief. The loss 
 of a child of fifteen months old would seem perhaps but a light 
 affliction to those who have not known what my life has been 
 during the last few years. But this little girl which God had 
 given us when we had abandoned all hope of such happiness, had 
 looked to me like a token that life and its joys were not yet ended. 
 Since the death of my daughter Mary, my existence has been in 
 every way shattered. The terrible fall of a government, to 
 which duty and affection bind me alike, seemed to me like the 
 close of a life which I can speak of in Montlosier's words : " Je 
 ne Vai point Spar g nee, mais que je n'ai pu la rendre utile.''* 
 
 ' A deep melancholy took possession of me, but that little angel 
 had given me as it were a new life. Think, dear friend, what I 
 felt by the side of her cot as she lay dying ! The merciless tor- 
 rent of political affairs forced me to Berlin, and at the moment 
 when I was almost overwhelmed by the weight of an immense 
 responsibility, a telegram brought me the news that my wife was 
 dying. I signed the last protocol of the conferences before 
 leaving, and then came back to Erfurth, God only knows in what 
 a state of mind. He did not break the bruised reed ; He spared 
 my wife, and may He be for ever blessed for this mercy ! This is 
 all I can tell you about ourselves, dear friend ; but it is what you 
 wished to hear. It is impossible to say what will become of 
 us, even for the shortest time. My private life is still bound up 
 with my political position, and I must patiently await the time 
 
 * I have not spared it, but failed to make it useful. 
 
458 A SISTER'S 8T0RT. 
 
 when God will suffer me to retire from a whirlwind which is 
 rather driving me than I directing it. The gladdest day for me 
 will be the one when I shall be at liberty to shut myself up in 
 some quiet place, and live only for my friends, my studies, and, 
 above all, for that life to come, compared with which all the so- 
 called great affairs of the world are in reality child's plaj. Let 
 us hear from you, dear friend, there are not four people in the 
 world I love so well as you. ' Radowitz.' 
 
 It was during her last stay at Baden that Alexandrine spoke 
 to me for the first time of a plan which she carried into effect not 
 long afterwards, and about which we were not at that time quite 
 of the same opinion. She wished to take an apartment in a con- 
 vent at Paris, as a pied-a-terre^ when my mother was not in 
 town. After she had left me we continued to discuss this sub- 
 ject in our letters, and two months later she wrote the following 
 answer to what I had written on the subject : — 
 
 ' How can you, dearest Sister, make any kind of apology for 
 what you say about my poor lodging ? Are not our hearts to be 
 always open to each other ? Can there be any comfort without 
 this openness ? No ; and for that reason let me answer what yon 
 urge. First, that I have admitted, and do admit, the admirable 
 way in which you accepted my experiment of the religious life ; 
 but I wish you would in like manner, accept this trifling 
 change which your imagination makes out to be something 
 alarming In reality I should not be oftener separated from you 
 all than I have frequently been of late ; for instance, last winter, 
 which I spent in Paris without your mother. Adrian, who approves 
 of this idea, says that it seems to him a very natural one for a 
 poor unsettled being without a husband or children. The bless- 
 ing of a religious vocation has not, alas ! been granted me ; but 
 is not a pious life, devoted to good works, some kind of vocation? 
 Your mother does not like Paris, and stays there as short a time 
 as possible ; is it not fair that I should have a hole, a tiny lodg- 
 ing of some kind, if it were only to store up the things I keep 
 for my little works of charity, but which will leave me quite 
 free to live all the rest of the year with her if I wish it ? As to 
 you, my dear old Paule, I would readily wager that I shall see 
 you in that way a great deal oftener than I have lately done. 
 WeU, God's will be done in this as in everything else ! ' 
 
 Nothing, certainly, could seem more natural than this arrange- 
 ment, or better adapted to the mode of life she had adopted. I 
 am, therefore, almost inclined to look upon the extreme dislike I 
 felt to it as a foreboding. But the fact was that I really felt afraid 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 459 
 
 (a fear which the event too plainly justified) that when once 
 left to herself, Alexandrine would deprive herself of many things 
 which habit had made necessary to her, and which she had made 
 use of as a matter of course whilst living with her relatives. 
 
 My mother had the same fears, but, as usual, she abstained 
 from any opposition which might have been influenced by her 
 own wishes, and left Alexandrine quite free to act as she thought 
 best. This new arrangement was not, however, carried into effect 
 until the following year. Nothing further was said about it at 
 the time I am speaking of, and the winter of 1847, like that of 
 1846, was spent by Alexandrine at Madame de Mun's home in 
 the Rue de Penthievre. My mother occupied an apartment 
 under the same roof, and as I was in Paris that year, I saw them 
 both every day. 
 
 Alexandrine returned to all her favourite occupations with an 
 ardour beyond her strength, and a generosity beyond her means. 
 To meet the deficiency in her resources, she gradually restricted 
 her own expenditure to the narrowest compass, and deprived 
 herself, of everything short of absolute necessaries. One day I 
 happened to look into her wardrobe, and was dismayed at its 
 scantiness. When we any of us made this kind of discovery, 
 she blushed and smiled, made the best excuses she could find in 
 return for our scoldings, and then went on just the same, giving 
 away all she possessed, and finding every day new occasions for 
 these acts of self- spoliation. 
 
 She had of course long ago sold or given away all her jewels 
 and trinkets, but if she ever happened to find among her things 
 an article of the smallest value, it was immediately disposed of 
 for the benefit of the poor. For instance, one day she took out 
 of its frame a beautiful miniature of Princess Lapoukhyn at the 
 ao-e of twenty, and sold the gold and enamel frame, defending 
 herself by saying that it was the only thing of value she still 
 possessed, and did not in the least enhance the value of her 
 mother's charming likeness. Two black gowns, and a barely 
 sufficient amount of linen, constituted her whole wardrobe, so 
 that she had reduced herself as far as was possible in her position 
 of life, to a state of actual poverty. 
 
 Her long errands were almost always performed on foot, and at 
 dinner-time she came home often covered with dirt and wet to 
 the skin. One day when she was visiting some Sisters of 
 Charity in a distant part of Paris, one of them looked at her from 
 head to foot, and then begged an alms for a poor woman much in 
 need of a pair of shoes. Alexandrine instantly produced her 
 purse and gave the required amount, with which the Sister went 
 away, and in a quarter of an hour returned, laughing, and bring- 
 
460 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 iug with her a pair of shoes, which she insisted on Madame 
 Albert's putting on instead of those she was wearing, which 
 were certainly in the worst possible condition. On her return 
 from these distant excursions, she usually put on her evening 
 dress and came down to Madame de Mun's drawdrg-room, where 
 she found my mother, who also had often been engaged in similar 
 charitable duties. During that winter I often joined this little 
 circle, now so thinned by death, and so soon to break up alto- 
 gether. For one brief moment I would fain pause and look back in 
 thought to that well-remembered room and its long table, at 
 which my mother and Madame de Mun were wont to sit with 
 Eugenie's children playing at their feet ; and at the place near 
 the lamp, where Alexandrine was to be seen every evening, with 
 her head bending over her work ; her brown hair divided into 
 two long plaits, a way of wearing it which particularly became 
 her, though it was certainly not chosen on that account. She 
 did not, however, profess to be free from all thought about her 
 appearance, — on the contrary, she was always accusing herself of 
 still caring for admiration, — and when once she heard that some- 
 body who had accidentally spoken to her had said she was pretty, 
 she exclaimed with half-jesting indignation, ' I really beheve 
 that if I were in my last agony that would please me still!' 
 Very pretty certainly she looked on those evenings, in her simple 
 black dress ; always calm and serene, and brightening up when- 
 ever the great interests and objects of life were the subjects of 
 conversation. Otherwise she remained silent, occupying herself 
 with her embroidery, or else, taking her httle book of extracts, 
 so full of beautiful thoughts, from her pocket, — she read them 
 over, and added new ones from her favourite books. 
 
 Those coming and going to that drawing-room must have often 
 watched and admired her ; and any visitor who, from time to 
 time, said things which coincided with her feelings, or related in 
 her presence any facts interesting to the Church, or consoling to 
 the soul, will never forget the beaming expression of her coun- 
 tenance, as she looked up. and, as it were, thanked them for their 
 words. Ah ! those dear visions of the past, it is indeed a 
 blessed faculty which enables us to call them up again ! Alexan- 
 drine was right when she said that imagination is a beautiful gift, 
 a magic mirror. 
 
 She occasionally left this home-circle to visit the friends whose 
 affection she had always considered as one of the chief blessings 
 of her life. Foremost of all was Albert's friend, the dear com- 
 panion of other days. Alexandrine's affection for M. de Monta- 
 lembert never underwent the slightest change, and his wife was 
 included in that friendship, and in their house she was always 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 461 
 
 welcomed as a sister. Similar recollections attached her also to 
 M. and Madame Rio, and she saw them as often as their frequent 
 absence from Paris allowed. Madame de Gontant she loved, 
 revered, and looked up to as her pattern in the ways of charity. 
 She also affectionately admired Madame Amedee Thayer, who 
 proved the courageous and devoted friend of her latter days. 
 These, and a few other friendships of the same kind, sometimes 
 attracted her from home, but only into the most private circles, 
 for nothing but the most strictly- chosen society would have suited 
 her mode of dress, or her wishes and tastes. 
 
 Time never hung heavy on Alexandrine's hands. After such 
 trials and sufferings, she could say as Madame Swetchine did, 
 ' that life was lovely and happy ; and ever as it went on, fairer, 
 happier, and more interesting.' The melancholy which was 
 natural to her character in youth, and which the radiant happi- 
 ness that for a moment filled up her life had not been able 
 to overcome, — that melancholy which was the sign perhaps of 
 some kind of softness of soul, and which so many deaths, and 
 such floods of tears could naturally have increased — had been 
 completely put down and overcome by the love of God and the 
 poor. One day as I saw her moving about her room, which she 
 had made so bare, with an air of the gi'eatest gaiety, we both of 
 us suddenly recalled the terrible days of the past, when her grief 
 had been full of gloom, and then she said what was very striking 
 to any one who knew how deep was her unutterable love to the 
 very last. ' Yes, that is all true ; those were cruel and dreadful 
 days ; but now, by God's grace, I mourn for my Albert gaily. ^ 
 
 III the month of July, 1847, I was with my mother and Alex- 
 andrine at Boury. We were all met there for the first time after 
 Albert's death, and there I was to see her for the last time. A 
 few short days we spent together before our parting, which, as 
 far as this world is concerned, was to last for ever. Perhaps — I 
 may say it again — perhaps it was well for me that I knew it not ; 
 well for me that I could not foresee I was about to leave Alex- 
 andrine for ever ; that when I prayed beside my mother in the 
 chapel, the thought never crossed my mind that that best and 
 dearest happiness of my life was also drawing to a close, and that 
 in leaving Boury, I knew not the deep significance of our last 
 word— ADIEU. 
 
 Alexandrine and I talked over her intended change of abode. 
 She had finally made up her mind to spend the time between her 
 return to Paris in November and my mother's arrival there in 
 February at the Convent of S. Thomas of Villanova. I opposed 
 this plan with some warmth, which, however, I soon repented, 
 and ended by begging her to forgive me, and yielded entirely to her 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 arguments, for I felt it would be wrong to make any effort to with- 
 draw her from Paris and the life she led there, or to deprive her of 
 the happiness she found in it. I have already spoken of that hap- 
 piness ; but the last conversation that we held together impressed 
 my mind in a remarkable manner. It struck me so much at the 
 time that not to forget it I wrote down every word of it, httle 
 knowing the comfort I was laying up for myself. I shall make no 
 change in those pages, but simply copy what I find in my Journal. 
 
 ' The eve of my departure from Boury, July 13th, 1847 1. 
 
 * We went to the cemetery as usual, to pray by the side of our 
 two dear graves. Alexandrine knelt on the stone which cover g 
 both Albert's tomb and the resting-place which, for the last twelve 
 years, had been marked out for her ; while I knelt on Olga's 
 grave. It was a warm and lovely evening, When we left the 
 cemetery, we chose the longest way home, and walked slowly 
 back. It was natural that on that beautiful evening, after our 
 visit to the church-yard, and alone with me, Alexandrine should 
 dwell on the thoughts always uppermost in her mind. For my 
 part, I liked better than anything else to hear her speak of God 
 and her own soul, and lost no opportunity in drawing out her 
 thoughts, for they always did me so much good. 
 
 ' As we left a corn-field, and came upon the road leading to 
 the house, I stood still a moment, to look at the sky, where the 
 sun was setting in the midst of so radiant a glory that the whole 
 dreary landscape looked beautiful in its light. I said to Alex- 
 andrine, " I do so hke the time of sunset ! " " I do not," she 
 replied. *' Since my troubles " — an expression she very seldom 
 used — " Since my troubles the sunset has had a mournfui effect 
 upon me. It ushers in the night, and I do not like the night-time. 
 I like the morning and the time of spring, for these are what most 
 typify to me the realities of Eternal life. Night is the symbol of 
 darkness and sin ; evening makes me think that everything 
 draws to an end, and both of these are sad. But the morning 
 and the spring remind me that everything will wake up and be 
 bom again. That is what I love." 
 
 ' We walked on, and just as we had passed through the gate, 
 she said : — " Try and throw yourself into the thought that 
 everything that gives us such pleasure on earth is absolutely 
 nothing but a shadow, and that the reality of it all is in Heaven. 
 After all, is not love the sweetest thing on earth ? Is it not, then, 
 easy to believe that to love Love itself must be the perfection of 
 all sweetness ? And to love Jesus Christ is nothing else, when 
 we learn to love Him absolutely as we love on earth. I should 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 463 
 
 never have been comforted if I had not learnt that that kind of 
 love really exists and lasts for ever." 
 
 ' We sat down on a bench, still conversing. A little while 
 after Alexandrine got up to gather a spray of the jessamine which 
 clothed the wall. She gave me the spray, and then stood before 
 me with a little sprig of it in her hand, continuing the conversa- 
 tion. I had said to her, — " It is a great blessing that you can 
 love Grod in that way." She answered me in words, and with 
 an expression and bearing which must always remain imprinted 
 on my mind, " 1 Pauline ! how can I help loving Grod — how 
 can I help being carried away when I think of Him ? How can 
 I even have any merit in it like the merit of faith, when I think 
 of the miracle which He has wrought in my soul ; when I feel 
 that after having so loved and so ardently desired this world's 
 happiness — after having possessed it and lost it, and been 
 drowned in the very depths of despair — my soul is now trans- 
 formed, and so full of happiness, that all I have ever known or 
 imagined is nothing — absolutely notJiing in comparison ! " 
 
 ' Surprised to hear her speak in this way, I said : " But if life 
 with Albert, such as you dreamed, were placed before you, and it 
 
 were promised you for a length of years ?" She answered, 
 
 without the least hesitation, " I would 7wt take it hack.'' ' 
 
 Such were our last words together, and when I wish to think 
 of her as she was on the day when we were to part for ever, I 
 still see her standing before me near that bench, with her speaking 
 countenance, her eyes upraised, holding that little spray of jessa- 
 mine in her hand. 
 
 The next day I left Boury. Since that day I have many times 
 been there to pray in the cemetery burial-ground, but never once 
 have I entered the house again. 
 
 The conversation I have just related should of itself have made 
 me feel that the time had come when Alexandrine had nothing 
 further to do on earth but to die. I wondered afterwards that it 
 had not struck me, and that her words had not thrilled through 
 my heart like a farewell. For the happiness which now filled her 
 mind, so far surpassing that other earthly joy which she had re- 
 nounced for the gift of faith, was but the forerunner of one more 
 perfect, the ^refreshing dew,' as the Abbe Grerbet says, which 
 falls before the coming day, whose brightness even now dawned 
 upon her. But a vain wish mingles with that consoling thought, 
 and desires that the beloved soul which has reached those heights, 
 should be allowed to break its chains without effort, and escape a 
 last conflict which my weakness shrinks from describing. For a 
 moment, indeed, I thought of laying dow^n my pen, and ending 
 this record, while leaving on my readers' minds the bright image 
 
464 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 of Alexandrine, such as it appeared to me on the eve of our last 
 farewell. But this would not be fulfilling uij task, nor would it 
 be doing entire justice to her holy and beloved memory. And 
 tlien the crowning grace of her life — the sweetest, most powerful, 
 and most encouraging example she has bequeathed to us would 
 remain unrevealed. 
 
 My own share in Alexandrine's story is almost at an end. A 
 few extracts from her letters between the time I left Boury and 
 the beginning of her last illness in Paris, and my mother's later 
 on, will conclude the picture of her life and death. Very dear 
 and precious to me are those letters of my mother — for in 
 describing the last days of her beloved adopted daughter, she 
 was describing her own last earthly trial. The measure both of her 
 sorrows and of the grace with which they were met, was filled to 
 the brim beside Alexandrine's dying bed. 
 
 ALEXANDRINE TO PAULINE. 
 
 * I love you better than ever, dearest Pauline, and it is very 
 Bweet to me to feel that you love me. As we advance in this 
 sorrowful life, our friendships seem to take deeper root, and 
 though some of its blossoms may fall to the ground, the fruit, 
 which is far more precious, remains. You made me lift up my 
 heart in thanksgiving, for it is indeed true that after all the 
 sorrows and the fears for myself and others, which nearly drove 
 me to despair, nothing can be more wonderful than to find myself 
 happier than I have ever been or hoped to be. And this in spite 
 of a strange liability to depression, anxiety, and a spiritual dark- 
 ness which often affects my soul. When you come to think of it, 
 what an admirable thing a soul is I How easy it is to feel, with- 
 out entering into explanations, that one soul is of more value than 
 the whole material world put together.' 
 
 ' October 20th, 1847. 
 
 ' If I said I should like to see Gioberti,* a Jesuit, I meant it 
 only in the sense of an atonement, for God forbid I should be so 
 foolishly and wretchedly narrow-minded as to wish everybody to 
 have the same vocation. On the contrary, I particularly appre- 
 ciate variety in unity. I say this every day. I wish people to 
 understand that variety is necessary, and that no two leaves are 
 alike. We want fruit-trees and forest-trees, lilies and bla-des of 
 grass, drops of water and stones 
 
 ' Yes, indeed, I do love happiness and comfort, to say the least 
 of it, as much as you do ; but do we ever really enjoy them on 
 
 * It was four years since we had known him at Brussels, and he had just 
 published his book against the Society of Jesus. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 465 
 
 earth ? Are not these things always in bulb, and never in flower 
 in this world ? And the more we do without them here, so much 
 the more we shall enjoy them hereafter.' 
 
 ' Paris, November 6th, 1847. 
 
 ' Dear Love, — I had intended to answer your letter briefly, and 
 to say nothing more on the subject, but the Abbe Debeauvais* 
 (who always inclines to the side of prudence and moderation) has 
 just been saying that in our days it is cowardly not to show our 
 love for the Society of Jesus. This has touched my pride, and 
 you may now expect rather a fiery letter. Well, then, I do love 
 the Society of Jesus, and I glory in loving it, without any party 
 spirit, for I am ready to admire virtue and goodness wherever 
 they exist. Do you suppose that the love of truth which God 
 has given me burns less brightly in my soul since I have been in 
 the focus of Eternal light ? Yes, I do love the Society of Jesus, 
 and why ? Because the most obscure and narrow-minded Jesuit 
 teaches me to love our Lord Jesus Christ more than Gioberti 
 with all his philosophy ;t yet you know I like philosophy, and 
 believe it to be a necessary instrument in the salvation of many 
 
 souls You tell me that the great cause of animosity 
 
 lies in this, that the Jesuits are an obstacle to the diffusion of 
 Liberal ideas, and this tempts me to exclaim, " My Lord Jesus 
 Christ, didst Thou say, ' Be ye liberal,' or 'i?e ye perfect ?' " But 
 do not imagine from this that I have no love for true liberty, for 
 I love it whenever it is real, but then not so much as pej'fection. 
 I do not deny that I am biassed on this subject, but by God's 
 infinite grace the bias is towards " Jesua Christ and Sim Crucified.''' 
 May I lean more and more to that side, and lose myself, heart 
 and mind, in the depths of that knowledge, rather than be swayed 
 by any amount of learning, genius, or eloquence, which could in 
 the slightest degree draw me aside. S. Thomas of Aquin and 
 S. Bonaventure knew nothing but "■Jesus Christ and Shn Cruci- 
 fied,'" yet whose genius has ever surpassed the former of these 
 great men ? Everything is comprised in these few words, and 
 neither of them would ever have ventured to write what Gioberti 
 
 * The Cure of S. Thomas d' Aquin, in Paris. 
 
 f She sent me at the same time this little fable : — 
 
 ' A king had a delicious garden, full of more or less beautiful flowers. One 
 of the noblemen of his court was always praising this lovely garden, but at the 
 same time declaiming in a strange and violent manner against one variety of 
 flower, and that not the least beautiful in the parterre, and which the king 
 liked exceedingly. The nobleman wanted to root up this flower, and even went 
 so far as to tear up several with his own hands. One day the king said to him, 
 " I am glad to see that you like my garden so much, but would it not show 
 more love for it if you did not hate those particular flowers so much ? " ' 
 
 2 H 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 has written.* And do not tell me it is the Order that he attacks, 
 and not its individual members. What would you feel if some 
 one were to say, " Those la Ferronnays are an anti- Christian, 
 hypocritical family, always irreligiously disposed, but amongst 
 them there is that good Pauline, and that pious little Albertine, 
 who has such-and-such good qualities, &c." I should prefer 
 giving up individuals, not indeed to the good pleasure of their 
 enemies, but so far as their accusations are proved. 
 
 ' As to the Order, so long as I see none that do more good than 
 the Jesuits, so long as I find no better confessors, missionaries, 
 or even colleges elsewhere, I shall rest contented with their 
 teaching, and satisfied with admiring the Society of Jesus. 
 
 ' Yesterday I met the Abbe Dupanloup at Mme. de Grontaut's. 
 He so far agrees with you in thinking the Jesuits are as unfor- 
 tunate in being defended by , as in being attacked by 
 
 Gioberti. But I do wish you could have heard him, and opened 
 wide your ears, both of body and mind. It is time, my beloved 
 sister, it really is time that your bright arid clear intellect should 
 no longer be led astray by the charms of genius and eloquence ; 
 Divine rays, indeed, when they emanate from the Living Light, 
 but destructive and noxious beams when they diverge from that 
 only true centre. It is well understood between us that all this 
 discussion is not to interfere in the least with our friendship, the 
 sweetest charm of my life. I am going soon to forget the world 
 for a little while, or to look upon it from its Heavenly side. I 
 shall often think of you during my eight days' Retreat, and in the 
 Sacred Heart of Our Lord.' 
 
 ' Paris, November 27th, 1847. 
 * What will you say to a letter beginning with these words : — 
 
 * I find in another letter the following excellent remarks upon Gioberti : — 
 ' October 10th, 1847. — To return to the great Christian philosopher, Gioberti, 
 and I call him so in no ironical sense, for you know I have always, and still do, 
 look upon him as such. I think I have already told you that I admit the 
 justice of the comparison you draw between him and Pascal. You also know 
 that 1 am too Italian and too Roman not to understand the interest you both 
 
 take in him. I also agree with you that is unjust to him, and that 
 
 you do right to rejoice at the effect he has produced in Germany. But I must 
 remind you that Madame Swetchine was struck at once v/ith the total absence 
 his writings evince of the first principles of asceticism. The same gifts are 
 not, of course, bestowed on all, but poor Gioberti ought to know that he is 
 ignorant of the only really important science, that of the interior life, and 
 it is this ignorance which renders him quite incapable of appreciating the 
 Jesuits. I understand all the struggles of your mind and heart, but the heart 
 is very large. Let us, like our beloved Lord, love everything that is worthy 
 of love.' 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 467 
 
 ' Death — application of the senses.'* 
 
 ' I cannot help laughing about it in my solitude. It is the 
 fruit of my Ketreat. Dearest Pauline, you must give yourself 
 before long this spiritual enjoyment. You must allow your soul 
 the benefit of those strong impressions which we would fain 
 never lose, and which always have a ripening effect. Ah ! people 
 seek excitement, they will weep at a play over fictitious sorrows, 
 and are affected by some imaginary event infinitely less important 
 than the very least of those political changes which our friend 
 Radowitz so nobly despised. And apropos of that, I admire all 
 the grand ideas you unfold to me; but politics are, after all, 
 merely that drama in which " men vex themselves, and God 
 leads them." I can believe, though I have never seen it, that 
 there may be a magnificent drama of politics, but as to the usual 
 tissue of intrigues which go by that name, Radowitz is right ; 
 there will be no result, not even a little smoke. "What a long 
 parenthesis ! Well, I was saying that as people find so great a 
 charm in the excitement of emotions, they ought to seek it where 
 it is all real, where we soon discover that the invisible world is 
 far more real than the world before our eyes, — scenes where we 
 ourselves have a part to play in that Divlna Gommedia which has 
 its own facts and characters — exceeding all that fiction can ever 
 invent. We come out of Iletreat changed, amazed, and happy. 
 ! dearest sister, give yourself this happiness. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle Aubin, whom you remember at the Roule, and 
 thought so agreeable, said that when she came out of Retreat she 
 felt like the Saint who used to ask, " Do people still go on building 
 houses ? " In spite of my wandering mind the same thing occur- 
 red to me when I returned to the noise and business of life. 
 
 ' I can quite understand your feelings that nothing detaches 
 you from earth lil^e the transfiguration of death. Every one has 
 their particular attraction, and must be left freely to follow it. 
 But how can you say that you do not see the object of a medita- 
 tion which makes us, as it were, actually touch what our bodies 
 will become, when we are all so prone to love those bodies too 
 much, and to think so little of their approaching end ? If it 
 only tended to humble us and show us our nothingness, it would 
 still be very useful.' 
 
 A few days before that last Retreat, which proved to have been 
 
 * While Alexandrine was going through the spirited exercises, it occurred to 
 her to write out for me the whole of the Meditation on Death, which had never 
 before struck her so much. I was indeed a little surprised at the opening 
 words of her letter, and the fact of her own death following so soon after, gave 
 greater weight to the circumstance in my mind. 
 
463 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 a special preparation for Eternity, Alexandrine had taken posses- 
 sion of her little room in the Convent of S. Thomas of Villanova; 
 and at the end of her eight days' solitude she established herself 
 in her new abode, and resumed with ardour all the pursuits to 
 which her whole time was devoted. She had only come to Paris 
 at that time of the year, and only chose that humble lodging that 
 the pool" might not be deprived of three months of a life she 
 would like to have given up wholly to their service. Alone at 
 Paris, and without any family or social duties to perform, she 
 was able to give full scope to her charitable zeal. At all hours, 
 and in all weathers, she went out on foot, and often returned 
 shivering, wet to the skin, to a room where, to save the expense 
 of fuel, she would not allow a fire to be kept up during her 
 absence. Her food also was very different from the living to 
 which he had been accustomed. 
 
 It is impossible to say whether she injured her health by this 
 mode of life, or whether, while combating what she had looked 
 upon as fatigue, she was not in reality struggling with the 
 symptoms of incipient disease. 
 
 One morning at Mass in the convent chapel, a lady happened 
 to hear her cough, and noticing her pale looks and poor apparel, 
 she went to one of the Sisters, and told her that there was a lady 
 in the church who was probably too poor to provide herself vnth 
 necessaries, and that she should be very happy to supply her with 
 milk daily, if she had not the means to purchase it. This kind 
 soul was quite ashamed when the Sister told her the poor lady 
 was Madame Albert de la Ferronnays ; but Alexandrine, much 
 amused, laughed exceedingly at the mistake, and did not treat 
 herself better than before. 
 
 Thus things went on till the beginning of 1848, in so many 
 ways a sad and memorable year, more so to me than any which 
 had preceded it, with the exception of 1842 — the most melancholy 
 of my life. On New Tear's day, my mother being still absent, 
 Alexandrine dined with my eldest brother, and all the members 
 of our family then in Paris. She was flushed and feverish, 
 which made her look well, but a few days afterwards she was 
 obliged to take to her bed. On the 6th of January, in spite of 
 the cold, and though very unwell, she would go to the chapel 
 to hear Mass and receive Communion. She had to go to bed 
 again immediately afterwards. On the following day, feeling 
 much worse, she sent for Madame Amedee Thayer, and though 
 no one thought her illness dangerous, she earnestly begged to be 
 Anointed. This desire no doubt implied a strong conviction on 
 her own part that her sickness was a serious one, but she had 
 another motive for wishinor to receive the Last Sacrament that 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. iG9 
 
 day. And this was to spare my mother — who was expected the 
 next morning — the emotion of witnessing a scene which must 
 have painfully reminded her of so many previous trials of the 
 same kind. Bat as it happened, my poor mother had already 
 arrived. With her usual unselfishness, she gave up being with 
 Alexandrine in that solemn moment, and remained praying in the 
 convent chapel, that she might not know how entirely her affec- 
 tionate solicitude had failed of its end. 
 
 For some days Alexandrine did not apparently get worse, and 
 my mother's letters contain the account of these hopes and fears, 
 which she wrote as follows : — 
 
 * Alas ! my poor child, my own dear child, I think God intends 
 to take her from us. It looks as if He had led her to this house 
 to prepare for Eternity. All those who helped to bring her 
 here have been no doubt the unconscious instruments of His 
 will. Our Lady of Deliverance^ near whom she was so pleased 
 to come and dwell, will prove, I foresee, the pledge of her own 
 deliverance from this world. It would be impossible to describe 
 the state I am in. This fear, Pauline, had never crossed my 
 mind. It may be that a little prudent care might have prevented 
 her illness, but how can I tell that she would have taken those 
 precautions even if I had been by her side ? How can I be sure 
 that I should have prevailed on her to do so, or that I should 
 myself have discerned how serious her case was ? For some 
 time past she had looked pale and thin. We all urged her to 
 take care of herself, and now and then she pretended to rest, but 
 whenever any pressing case of necessity occurred, she was off 
 that moment, without giving a thought to her health, and always 
 walked such immense distances. And so, my poor Pauline, what 
 can we say ? Only that Almighty God sees fit to overwhelm us 
 with trials, and we must submit to His will. He shows me every 
 day more and more how unavailing are my prayers. I feel it 
 acutely, but I have not a word to say against that either.' 
 
 ' February 5th, 1848. 
 
 * The dear child is not worse, and though excessively thin, she 
 still looks well. But constant fever and oppression leave us very 
 little hope, and if I have any, it is more in prayer than in 
 physicians. I now see plainly that what induced her to come 
 here was her love of poverty, and I am sure it was on that 
 account that Father de Ravignan gave his consent. Every day 
 that passionate love of poverty seems to grow upon her, and there 
 can be no doubt that when once left to herself, her life was a 
 series of privations. And yet I reproach myself for having tried to 
 
470 A SISTER'S STORT. 
 
 prevent her from coming to this home, and for having locked upon 
 her resolution from a merely human point of view, for it is clear 
 to me now, that God was disposing everything according to His 
 own designs for this dear child ; that He placed her where she 
 was preparing for death without knowing it, and that He accepted 
 her intention of leading a life of poverty, detachment, and close 
 union with Himself. What a reward for her; but ! what 
 grief to us ! ' 
 
 ' February 8th. 
 
 ' We are in constant expectation of the final blow, but it has 
 not fallen yet. Perhaps at this very moment you are receiving 
 the letter in which I gave you some slight hopes, for I myself had 
 begun to hope again a httle. But she is so weak, that no remedies 
 take effect. Nature does not help us. It is her zeal which has 
 killed her, and this should not have been allowed. Still its cer- 
 tainty does not lessen the holiness and merits of a life God is 
 about to crown. Poor, dear, admirable child ! she speaks quite 
 simply of her death, and yesterday she said, " Mother, let us 
 speak openly about it." Dearest Pauline, I assure you that I 
 thank God that you are away, and that it is impossible for you 
 to come. It is for me a slow martyrdom, and it is diflBicult to 
 understand how one can live through such anguish. My God, 
 how little we foresee what is in store for us ! . . .' 
 
 ' Paris, February 9tli, 1848. 
 
 * My poor dearest Child, — It is all over ! Albert and Alexan- 
 drine are now united for ever ! ! my God, my God ! what a 
 hard decree is this for us ; but yet no doubt a merciful^ one for 
 her, for it seems evident that she was so ready to go that nothing 
 remained for her but to mount up to Heaven, and when that is 
 the case our prayers and tears avail but little, for God hastens 
 to summon his bright and shining soul to Eternal glory. In the 
 midst of all anguish, you were continually in my thoughts. What 
 I was suffering told me what you would suffer, and you know, 
 my poor beloved child, how my broken heart melts with tender- 
 ness for you. But I must give you the sad details while I have 
 strength, and it is a comfort to speak of that dear child. I wish 
 I could make her poor mother share all the consolation we derive 
 from the recollection of her holy example. And ! how my 
 heart aches when I think of her ! 
 
 * Yesterday Alexandrine was very restless, and in great pain; 
 and in the evening she said to Hortense [Madame A. Thayer], 
 that she should much like to take a composing-draught which 
 Cruveilhier had ordered, but that she was afraid it would vex me 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 471 
 
 because I preferred honioeopatliy. I hastened to say that 1 held 
 to nothing but what would give her rehef, upon which she took 
 the draught, and it refreshed and calmed her. When I kissed 
 her and wished her good-night, she asked me to make my usual 
 little sign of the Cross on her forehead, desiring me to tell you how 
 much she loved you. I went into the other room to say my prayers 
 and lie down on the bed, but ready to jump up at the first alarm. 
 Madame Thayer came to me a few minutes afterwards, and said 
 the composing-draught had done Alexandrine so much good that 
 she felt quite relieved. "And so I hope," she added, "that the 
 night will be a quiet one." "Alas ! " I answered with a sort of 
 fright, " there is often an improvement of this kind before the 
 end." She assured me that she did not think this was likely; on 
 the contrary, she thought that she might linger yet for several 
 days. With this hope I went to sleep about eleven o'clock. I 
 woke at three in the morning, and heard Madame Thayer's maid 
 go up to her bedside. I sprang up and ran to Alexandrine, when 
 one of the Sisters said she had just been about to call me, be- 
 cause she thought Alexandrine was getting weaker. Soeur Marie 
 then came up, and when she had looked at her, told me she 
 thought the end was very near. It was a great shock, even though 
 I had been expecting it. When Alexandrine saw us she said, 
 " Do you think I am worse ? " The Sister answered, " Yes." A 
 moment afterwards Alexandrine said again, " But what maizes 
 you think I am going ? I do not feel worse than usual. ^^ The 
 Sister told her she was getting weaker, but all I could do was to 
 press her hand. She was calm, and though she breathed with 
 difficulty, still she could very well say all she wished. At one 
 moment she thought something they were giving her to moisten 
 her mouth was intended to revive her strength, and so prolong 
 her life, and this seemed to distress her. They told her it was 
 not so, and Hortense bade her have no such fears ; that she was 
 going to die, and in a few moments would see God. 
 
 ' Albertine, Adrian, Charles, and Fernand, had all been quickly 
 summoned, and now arrived. The Prayers for the Agonizing were 
 said. Alexandrine made the responses in a firm and distinct 
 voice, and repeated all the short prayers and ejaculations sug- 
 gested to her. For one short moment she underwent some kind 
 of sharp agony, and her mind seemed to wander. She thought 
 she had not received the Sacrament ; and asked why there were 
 no prayers said. She seemed frightened because she did not see 
 a Priest by her side. This was painful, but it lasted only a 
 moment, and was hke a last trial. Soeur Marie told her that she 
 must not fear, that God was with her, aud that she must put her 
 whole trust in Jesus Christ. She then grew perfectly calm, and 
 
472 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 said, " You have done me great good! There is peace again ! " 
 Father de Montezon,* witli two other Priests then came in. 
 Father de Montezon gave her the Last Blessing and the Plenary- 
 Indulgence, and continued to pray beside her. She joined in the 
 prayers, and every time the names of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph 
 were pronounced, she repeated them after him. Even after she 
 seemed to be for some time unconscious she put up her lips to 
 kiss the Crucifix. At half-past eight o'clock she breathed her 
 last. Dear angel, she is gone to be for ever with her Albert, 
 and with all our dear ones in Heaven, and we can weep for 
 nothing but our own loss ! * * * * 
 
 ' Mj dearest daughter, I scarcely know where I am, or whether 
 I am alive or in a dream. What life will now be to me I cannot 
 think, but I will not trouble myself about that, or even think of 
 it. Comfort yourself, my blessed child, with the thought that 
 she is near you. She said, " I am sure that I shall be near her ; 
 that I shall see you all." She longed to depart, and the day 
 before yesterday was grieved at thinking that she would not 
 that night see God ! Everything in her life was specially ordained, 
 and this is another of those moments in which we can only 
 humble ourselves in marvelling worship of God's decrees. That 
 dear child will pray so much for you. She said so several times, 
 and the enclosed letter which she wrote you a few hours before 
 her death will be your best comfort. You know that she wrote 
 to her mother too, on her death-bed. May God support her 
 and you too, my child ! Let us try to live in Heaven with 
 them.' 
 
 This is Alexandrine's last letter : — 
 
 ' My most dear Sister and Friend, — God, Who orders every- 
 thing for the best, has surely wisely ordained it that you should 
 not be here. I wished for you most earnestly, but what does it 
 matter ? We are not really divided, and I shall soon be where 
 the wonderful communion we all have in God is understood. I 
 hope I shall be able to look down upon you ; but pray for me a 
 gi'eat deal when I am in Purgatory. It requires such purity to 
 enter Heaven, but still through God's grace I meekly trust in 
 His exceeding mercy. I shall love you more than ever where all 
 is love. Those other precious ones and I shall speak together. 
 But ! why do I not speak of what it will be to see God, and the 
 Blessed Virgin, and all the Angels and Saints, and to be freed 
 from the many and dreadful sorrows of this life of sin ! Give 
 
 * Father de Eavignan was absent at that time, and in an almost hopeless 
 state of health. He began to recover immediately after Alexandrine's death. 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 473 
 
 my love to Augustns, wlioni I never separate in my heart from 
 you.' 
 
 When she had finished these lines, she wished to write to her 
 mother, and devoted to her the last efibrt of strength : — 
 
 ' My poor dearest Mamma, — I am not better, but I hope no- 
 thing will shake your trust in God, which I know is so strong, 
 and which will lead you to truth and love. We shall meet again 
 — we shall never be divided ; but that it may be so, you must 
 offer your dear will most truly to God, and follow the one only 
 light which will help you to find that blessed way, whose happi- 
 ness I feel now more deeply than ever. I entreat of you, as I 
 have so often done before, to ask the Blessed Virgin, the Mother 
 of Mercies, every day to show you the way. You know how I 
 love, how I reverence you, and how much more now I should 
 suffer at the thought of your sufferings, if I did not leave you in 
 the Arms of God, to Whom we can trust all things. Farewell ! 
 We shall meet again, as I know, and then it will be where there 
 is no more sorrow, and where we shall possess that infinite hap- 
 piness of never offending God. I always include the good Prince 
 in all my loving feelings for you.' 
 
 She had dictated these two letters ; but at the end of the one 
 to her mother she traced with her dying hand three words in 
 German : — 
 
 ' Liebe sitsse Mama ! ' [Dear, sweet Mamma.] 
 
 Such was the last act of her life, and such her last thought on 
 earth. 
 
 Alexandrine's story is ended, and there is little more to add ; 
 now that the last of the three beloved sisters who form the sub- 
 jects of this story has breathed her last, it may be thought time 
 to take leave of the readers who have followed me from one dying 
 scene to another. But at the close of a glorious day it is still 
 meet to gaze on its reflected hght ; and when music dies on the 
 ear, we sometimes strive to catch the last lingering sounds as they 
 float away into space ; and therefore blessed and peaceful deaths 
 leave behind them also their bright light and tunefdl echoes, 
 which we are loth to lose. Perhaps, then, my readers may be 
 willing to gaze with me yet awhile on the image of the departed 
 Alexandrine, to lend ear to the last accents of her voice, and to 
 accompany her mortal remains to that tomb where long ago her 
 place had been prepared by Albert's side. 
 
474 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 MADAME DE LA FERRONNAYS TO PAULINE. 
 
 ' Paris, February 10th. 
 * Tlie Anniversary of Olga's Death, 
 
 * My poor Child, — ^You are hearing Mass to-day for our dear 
 Olga, and it is to-morrow that you will hear of our new sorrow, 
 which is such an intense one to me, but which I feel more deeply 
 still on your account. Beloved child ! you are always present to 
 my thoughts ; but what can your poor old mother do to heal so 
 cruel a wound ? God alone can do this, and that dear friend, in 
 the midst of her present happiness, will not forget the sister who 
 mourns her loss with a breaking heart ; she will obtain for her 
 the consolation she so much needs. You must not distress your- 
 self about the wish she had expressed to live at the beginning of 
 her illness, and which had surprised you in Alexandrine ; it only 
 lasted a short time. During the last ten days, she more than 
 wished, she passionately desired to die.* Every delay was irk- 
 some to her. She was continually asking how long she would last, 
 and when she was told, "perhaps a few days," she used to say, 
 with regret, " The7i I shall not see God to-day ! " Once she said, 
 *' Let Paidine know how very sweet it is to die.'^ And another time, 
 turning to me : " A7id you, dear mother, do you not also long to see 
 God ? " Yet, coward that I am, I felt afraid that she would 
 carry me off with her into the next world, just as she had tried 
 to take me with her into the noviciate of the Daughters of Sion, 
 and to share her Retreats, and then to live in this house. I told 
 her I had not courage to call upon death in that way, and that 
 it was enough for me to leave myself in God's Hands, Who 
 would do with me as He would. 
 
 ' Now I am going to pray beside her if I can. To-morrow 
 there will be a service at I'Abbaye au Bois, and then your 
 brothers and Adrian will take her to Boury, with my new sor- 
 row in that sorowful place. Alexandrine has left everything she 
 had power to leave to two charitable institutions. God bless 
 you, my poor child ! ' 
 
 THE SAME TO THE SAME. 
 
 * Paris, February 15th, 1848. 
 ' Alexandrine had asked, as you know, to be buried like the^poor. 
 To carry out her wishes, we had no hangings placed in the 
 
 * On one of those days as Madame de Gontaut was sitting with her, and 
 said something which implied that she was not so dangerously ill as she 
 supposed, Alexandrine exclaimed, ' Oh ! no, do not say so— let me taste the 
 sweet thought of death !' 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 475 
 
 church; and everything was done as simply as possible. But it 
 was nevertheless crowded with people, for the interest felt about 
 her, and the sorrow for her loss, are universal. After the service 
 the coffin was placed in the carriage which was to take it to 
 Boury. Your brothers and Adrian had the consolation of accom- 
 panying it. I stayed behind in the church, and only went away 
 when everybody else had left it. 
 
 ' When they arrived at Boury, where the news of her death 
 had only been announced on the Sunday before, there was a 
 general outpouring of grief and dismay among the poor, at the 
 idea of their dearly-loved Saint coming back to them in this way. 
 The whole neighbourhood assembled to meet the corpse, and 
 filled the church on the following day. The coffin rested that 
 night in the chapel of the chateau, and the funeral took place 
 the next morning, amidst the most touching manifestations of 
 grief and reverence. The Confraternity would not allow any one 
 but their own members to carry her to the grave, and they laid 
 her themselves by the side of her husband. And so they are 
 once more together, and that empty place is filled up now. I 
 scarcely know if I am awake or dreaming. There is a total loss 
 of everything which had again begun to make up a new life for 
 me. This is, at any rate, what I feel at this moment. It will 
 not be till I see you again, till I hold you in my arms, my dearest 
 child — you, my only life in this world — that I shall begin to feel 
 a little alive again ; but the thought of your affliction breaks my 
 heart' 
 
 I then received the following letter from the friend most 
 closely connected with the troubled days of Alexandrine's brief 
 happiness, as well as with the serene and holy end of her life.* 
 It describes her as she appeared to him on her death-bed, and this 
 will be the finishing touch to the picture which these pages have 
 sought to produce : — 
 
 ' I am slowly recovering from an illness which was very near 
 being a brain-fever, and which kept me from witnessing the last 
 moments of one whom we shall never again see on earth. But 
 before my sickness began, I did see her on what was to be her 
 
 * On the 9th of February, M. de Montalembert had written in his diary the 
 following lines : — 
 
 ' She has died happy. It has been a blessed end. She kept constantly re- 
 peating : " I feel perfectly satisfied. I want nothing. Is it possible that this 
 can be death ? that it should be so easy to die. Where are those agonies nf 
 death I had dreaded so much ? Mind you tell Pauline that it is nothing, 
 nothing at all to die in this way. I die happy and joyful. I shall go to 
 Heaven. I shall see Albert again, and Eugenie, and Olga. It will be so 
 dehghtful." ' 
 
476 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 death-bed, and I shall never, please God, forget the beautiful 
 serenity of her countenance, the evident tokens of Grod's bene- 
 diction resting upon her. On Sunday again — I never saw her 
 afterwards — we spoke of you. In all she said there was as much, 
 or even more than usual of the poetic beauty which lent so great 
 a charm to all her expressions of piety or affection ; all her own 
 graceful and appropriate ideas, which never failed to exhibit 
 religion under the sweetest and most attractive form. And then 
 that ardent love of the Church, so rare in our days even 
 amongst the most pious ; so calculated to kindle love in us, and 
 serve as our example. Ah ! may we prove ourselves worthy of 
 that great example God has given us in so gentle and winning a 
 form ! 
 
 ' And now you are the only survivor of that group of devoted 
 friends whom everybody admired and envied, and whom I looked 
 upon as the perfect ideal of Christian friendship, and happiness 
 on earth. Nobody was more completely identified than myself 
 wdth the ideas and feelings personified, as it were, by you and 
 your two sisters, and the blow which has fallen upon you strikes 
 me to the depths of my heart. 
 
 ' Alexandrine was the last link which connected me with the 
 recollections of my youthful and troubled life in Italy, previous 
 to the beginning of my political career. How can I ever forget 
 what she and Albert were to me at Pisa ? Let us always keep 
 up our friendship, for we have passed the age when it is possible 
 to replace by new affections those which death or other causes 
 destroy. Alexandrine is happy — for ever happy now. I think 
 we may rest on that belief, with a firm and consoling tru^t. 
 
 ' Your old and faithful frienci, 
 
 MONTAL.' 
 
 The year 1848, marked at its outset by Alexandrine's death, 
 witnessed also my mother's departure from this world. But before 
 entering on the subject occupying the few remaining pages of 
 this book, I lift up my heart for one moment to God, and thank 
 Him for all the joys I have known, the tears I have shed, and even 
 for the apparently hard dispensation which ordained that my 
 mother should so soon follow that long train of dear departed 
 souls to the grave — she to whom I have no fear in ascribing 
 all the blessings and consolation which attended the many trials 
 of this record. 
 
 We cannot of course penetrate the secrets known only to God, 
 but if we could discern what prayers had obtained such special 
 mercies, there would not be one amongst us who would hesitate 
 to attribute them to the petitions which rose day by day from 
 
A SISTER'S STORY. 477 
 
 the tender, and pnre, and fervent, and humble heart of our 
 mother: Even while I write these words I seem to hear the 
 voices of the beloved dead confirming my behef that her first 
 joy on entering Heaven was to hear them bless her for their 
 happiness. 
 
 The last letter I received from my mother was dated on the 
 15th of February. The events which followed so close upon 
 that day increased her desire to seek shelter with us in Germany. 
 Baden was not yet invaded by the revolutionary torrent, and 
 when she arrived there with my young sister in the beginning 
 of March, it was with the full intention of settling there and 
 never leaving me again. This hope was realized, but it was a 
 short-lived happiness. I am, however, deeply grateful that those 
 days with her were granted to me, and that in the great affliction 
 which ensued, I enjoyed consolations so often denied me in other 
 sorrows, and so abundantly vouchsafed on this occasion. 
 
 On All Soul's Day — the 2nd of November, I suddenly awoke 
 in the midst of a sad dream. I got up and hastened to the 
 church, where Mass was said at seven. It was hung with black 
 on account of the day. I had dreamt that I saw my mother 
 dying, and the sight of the black hangings gave me pain. I 
 mentioned it to her when I came home, with a little emotion and 
 much joy that it had been only a dream. 
 
 A week afterwards, my mother was ailing, but so slightly 
 that it seemed absurd to be anxious. Still I could not help 
 feeling a little uneasiness, though everybody told me there was 
 no cause for it. She scarcely suffered at all, and went on in this 
 way for four days. But on the 14th of l!^ovember, the doctor 
 suddenly told us that she was in danger, and an hour afterwards 
 the case was hopeless ! For her, this seemed indeed a sudden 
 and unexpected summons ; for us, a terrible shock. 
 
 Sentence was pronounced at seven o'clock in the evening. 
 "What followed is described in some hardly legible pages, written 
 in the midst of my anguish, through a nervous apprehension 
 that grief might affect my memory, and blot out of my mind the 
 blessed words I had heard from her lips. 
 
 As she was coming out of the bath, leaning upon me, and I 
 was thinking how I could break to her what the doctor had told 
 us, she said, ' But I cannot see anything. I think 1 am going to 
 die. I believe this is death. My Grod, I give Thee my heart, my 
 soul, my will, and my life ! ' Oh what joy those words gave me 
 at that terrible moment ! I knelt down and begged her to make 
 her little usual sign of the Cross on my forehead.* She did so, 
 both for me and for Albertine, and then for Augustus, and laid 
 
 • * Tliat was the way in which she used always to give us her blessing. 
 
478 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 her hand on his head. I asked her to forgive me everything I 
 had ever done to vex her. She answered with a smile, ' ! 
 yes, certainly,' and added in a moment, ' I assure you that I 
 think of death with great joy ; but, my children, why have you 
 not sent for a Priest ?' We had sent for her confessor, who was 
 a very infinn old man, and the answer had been, that he would 
 call the next day. ' To-morrow ?' my mother said ; ' perhaps 
 to-morrow will be too late.' We then offered to send for the 
 cure of the parish, though he did not speak French, and asked 
 her if she wished to receive Extreme Unction immediately. ' Yes 
 — yes, certainly,' she answered, and a moment afterwards said, 
 ^Your dream is coming to pass. ^ 
 
 While we were waiting for the Priest, she explained to me 
 some little matters with regard to her last wishes, and then spoke 
 of the cure, who knew no language but German, which she 
 could hardly speak at all. ' But to be sure,' she said, ' I went to 
 confession a few days ago,* and since then the only thing I 
 have on my conscience is what I said to you the other day 
 about Father de Ravignan.' What she alluded to was this : I 
 had been entreating her to take more care of her health, and not 
 to go out fasting before seven o'clock in the morning, when the 
 ground was covered with snow, and added that if Father de 
 Ravignan had been there, he would have said the same thing. 
 She had answered : * I am not sure of that ; those good fathers 
 are sometimes harder upon us than upon nuns ! ' Ah ! such were 
 the words for which my sweet, saintly mother blamed herself ; 
 such the only self-reproach which troubled her conscience when 
 about to appear before God ! 
 
 At nine o'clock the cure came, and we left her alone with him 
 for a little while, and then returned to be present whilst she re- 
 ceived Extreme Unction, which she did with a calmness which no 
 words can describe. Afterwards she seemed better, and incHned 
 to sleep. Nothing indicated the immediate danger which the 
 physician had spoken of. I left the room for a moment, but 
 Albertine hastily called me back. My mother had tried to get 
 up, and fainted. She looked dying then, but after a while she 
 rallied again, and we lifted her into her bed. She fell asleep, 
 and for some hours we could not help indulging hopes. Towards 
 three o'clock she once more tried to stand, and this brought on a 
 sort of convulsion, which frightened us. Augustus was at her feet ; 
 I supported her in my arms. With Albertine' s assistance we again 
 placed her in bed. As she was sitting upon it before lying down, 
 I noticed in her face the great and solemn change — that change 
 
 * She used to go to Communion every morning, and had confessed three 
 d;iys before. 
 
A SISTER'S STOBT. 479 
 
 preceding death, whicli in her case was very beautiful. Her 
 large soft eyes seemed to be looking beyond this world, and as 
 soon as her head rested upon the pillows, she said to me in a calm, 
 distinct voice, ' Give me your father's Crucifix.' It was the one 
 he had held in his hands when he was dying. She took it into 
 her hands, and it was then only that she loosed her hold of the 
 little case which contained my father's picture, which she had 
 never been without. At night it was always put under her pillow, 
 and up to the moment I speak of, she had constantly held it in her 
 hand. But now she took the Crucifix, kissed it tenderly, and said, 
 as she had done before : — 
 
 ' My God, I give Thee my heart, my soul, my will, and my life ;' 
 and then repeated Olga's dying words — ' I believe, I love, I hojpe, 
 I repent.'' She had said to me three years before, ' Olga said 
 everything in those four words. I should like to die with those 
 words on my lips.' And this she did. I knelt down again by 
 her side, and began the Litany of the Blessed Virgin — my dear 
 mother followed, and repeated every word — then she made the 
 sign of the Cross again on our foreheads, and said, 'I bless you 
 all, absent and present, elder ones and younger ones.' Then, 
 taking up the Crucifix, she looked at it with an indescribable 
 expression of love, and exclaimed, ' Soon — 8oon ! ' Then, in 
 the same voice, and with the same expression, she several times 
 repeated, ' My God, I commend my soul into Thy hands. I give Thee 
 my heart, my soul, and my life. I believe, I hope, I love, and I 
 repent.' 
 
 I said aloud a Pater, an Ave, and a Memorare, because she had 
 asked me the day before to say them to obtain for her a happy 
 death. She repeated these prayers after me, and then a Credo by 
 herself. I heard her distinctly saying, * I believe in the Eesurrection 
 of the Body, in the Communion of Saints.' These two articles 
 of the Creed have always remained fixed in my mind with the 
 very tone of her voice. Ah ! my God ! After that she dozed a 
 little, and then awoke somewhat troubled, and said, ' 0, my God ! 
 0, my God ! ' as if in pain. We began to pray again, and she 
 became quite calm, and repeated everything after us. While we 
 were saying the Litany of the Blessed Virgin she ceased to speak, 
 but at each answer pressed Augustus by the hand, till she gently 
 fell back into my arms and breathed her last. As long as she 
 could see, her eyes seemed to follow me, and for more than two 
 days her face retained the same expression. All the sweet beauty 
 of her soul and of her life were heightened in death. Dear, be- 
 loved, gentle, and holy mother of mine ! pray for your children. 
 For those who are now with you. For those you have left 
 behind. 
 
480 A SISTER'S STORY. 
 
 My brothers came a week afterwards to remove the beloved 
 remains to Boiiry, and there they rest, between the tomb of 
 Albert and Alexandrine and Olga's early grave. 
 
 L'ENVOI. 
 
 This record is ended. There is nothing to add to the joy, the 
 sorrow, the consolation, and the example of those whose story it 
 contains. Let all who have read it with pious interest now of 
 their great charity beg of God that the writer may have grace to 
 be faithful to the example vouchsafed to her ; and if, in conclud- 
 ing, she may add one other petition, it shall be in the w^ords of 
 the opening prayer, ' ! my Grod, grant to those who loved 
 Thee so deeply in life, after death to kmdle Thy love in the hearts 
 of men.* 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 One evening, in Venice, (the 4th of April, 1836), Fernand brought the first 
 portion of the following passages to Alexandrine, who read them with great 
 emotion. At a time when her love was seeking through so much suffering and 
 with such ardour to find its way to faith, truth, and the love of God, it can be 
 easily imagined what an effect these pages produced upon her mind. They will 
 also show how Eugenie's ardent piety must have helped Alexandrine, at this 
 important and sad moment of her life, to rise above this world. 
 
 Eugenie's Note Books, 1835-1836. 
 
 * Is this wish to die a presumptuous feeling, my God ? Am I then so certain 
 that I should go to Thee ? All men's thoughts are known to Thee. It is Thou, 
 my God, Who hast placed me in this happy position in which I have no oppor- 
 tunity of doing harm. I do not make a merit of it, for I know very well that 
 if the least temptation should present itself, I should immediately do wrong, for 
 I am wicked, and all the more wicked because Thou givest me moments of such 
 fervent devotion. Yes, it is true, I wish to die because I would see Thee, my 
 God, but it is Thou who givest me that wish. I know this, so there is no pre- 
 sumption in it. ! save me from the danger of thinking myself good. Keep 
 my heart for Thyself, and when I am in the world, where my head is so easily 
 turned, strengthen me by the remembrance of this time of sensible devotion. 
 Strengthen me, because, though I see the dangers of the world, I yet am 
 amused. I lose my head, and my poor heart shuts up, because I have not time 
 to listen to it. Keep me, therefore, my God, for I am Thy child. Surely I 
 am Thy child. If I am likely to do harm in the world, let me die first. To die 
 is a reward, for to die is to go to Heaven, but if I do what is wrong, I shall 
 have t/) wait a long time before I get there. 
 
 ' Come, 0, my God ! I love Thee so much ! The very thought of Thee and of 
 Heaven where I wish to go, inflames my heart. Thou wilt surely let me go 
 there ; I only hope not to be afraid at the last moment. Send me other trials, 
 my God, but not that one. 
 
 * Death has always been the favourite idea of my life ; it has always smiled 
 upon me. Thou wilt not permit that at the last moment that continual idea of 
 going to Thee should forsake me. I have tried to examine myself by imagining 
 myself very ill, dying in a room saddened by disease and suffering. 
 
 ' Well, I could not find in my heart any feeling of fear. Again, I saw my- 
 self surrounded by all the happiness earth can give ; about to stand before the 
 Altar, the bride of one I loved and who loved me, and dying before I approached 
 it. And, my God, Thou knowest that the vision of these earthly joys 
 vanished before the better one of going to Thee ! I have imagined myself dy- 
 ing suddenly, assassinated, poisoned, everything most miserable, and always the 
 thought " My God ! Take me ! My God ! let me go to Thee " was uppermost. 
 
 2i 
 
482 APPENDIX. 
 
 Nothing has ever been able to make death frightful to me, nothing has made the 
 word " death " a mournful one. It always sounds to me sweet and bright. It 
 is always united in my mind with those two other beautiful words " love and 
 hope." Couldst Thou deny me the joy of dying without fear! 0, no, my be- 
 loved Heavenly Father ! Thou wilt never deny it me, for I am Thy child, and 
 I love Thee, and Thou knowest what Thou hast promised to that Word ! 
 
 ' There is in me a droll mixtvire of vanity and shyness. I often wish, out of 
 vanity, to talk to people whose opinion I greatly value. I want to show that I 
 can enter into certain ideas and feelings ; and then all at once I feel awkward, 
 confused, and as if I should never find words if I attempted to speak, and all 
 my wish to show oflf disappears. I put on at once a stupid, indifferent manner, 
 lest any one should suspect me of having any sense, and should think of speak- 
 ing to me. This happened to me the other day with the Abb6 Martin. I 
 ■wanted to ask him if it was presumption in me always to think of Heaven 
 when I think of death. From two or three words he said to me, I fancied hd 
 did not consider me capable of serious thoughts, and feared to weary me by 
 conversing gravely, and I took it into my head to show him he was mistaken. 
 But as I was about to open my lips, I felt myself blushing and confused, and 
 inwardly said: " Oh! how much easier it is to be ignorant, or to seem so, at 
 least, and to be taken for a fool. What nonsense it is to condemn myself from 
 time to time to this little punishment in order to satisfy my vanity, and, after 
 all, to display what ? " I am quite contented that everybody should thjnk me 
 still more ignorant than I am. " Blessed are the poor in spirit ! " This is 
 better than knowledge, and certainly better than vanity. 
 
 ' Life is fatiguing, because it is made up of tits and starts. This is weari- 
 some, but consoling when we find ourselves in a bad mood, because we can 
 make sure it will not last, and I can quite understand that God should not 
 allow those happy moments of fervent, burning devotion, in which we seem to 
 care no longer for earth, and think only of Heaven, to last a long time. Those 
 moments are His chiefest graces, and it is only now and then He bestows them. 
 One such instant in a lifetime would call for eternal gratitude, for that sort of 
 happiness is a foretaste of Heaven. 
 
 ' To return to what I was saying, we pass from one state to another, and 
 now, after the long and happy time of fervour I have had, I feel getting colder. 
 It is disagreeable, and I pray less well. If I was to go out in the world now, 
 I should be losing my head again, as I used to do ; not quite so foolishly, how- 
 ever, I hope, for it seems to me that Grod has established in my heart a solid 
 love of goodness and of Himself, which I do not lose even in my giddiest mo- 
 ments, and this prevents the illusions of amusement from taking entirely pos- 
 session of me, and helps me to return to Q-od. I keep always speaking to 
 Almighty Grod, and I believe this to be a good plan, for He always hears. Thus 
 I thanked him lately for the good mood I was in, because it was all full of 
 Him. Now that is changing, I say : " Well, my G-od, let it be as Thou wilt, 
 but do not quite abandon me. It is precisely in the world that I require Thy 
 Presence, because of its dangers, and that the devil is there, on the watch for 
 my soul. To mix a little bit in the world is not bad for me. It is rather good 
 than otherwise, for it teaches me its little worth, and sends me back to Thee 
 with an increase of love. But then, my God, Thou must only loose Thy hold 
 of me a little, just only enough to try me. Thou must never quite let me go. 
 I will cling to Thee ; my God, do not forsake me." 
 
 ' Everything we say to God is a prayer, and when the mind cannot apply, a 
 conversation with our Blessed Lord may sometimes supply the place of our or- 
 dinary devotions. We must always think of God, if only to think that we do 
 not think of Him enough. We must complain of it to Him, and in His great 
 
APPENDIX. 483 
 
 goodness' He will recall our wandering thoughts. For my part I leave every- 
 thing to His care, and wish nothing but as He wills, for I know that the only 
 thing I cannot desire can never be His will, which is, that I should cease to be 
 His child. When I feel nothing but dryness, I offer up to Him that trial. He 
 then gives me, in return, greater graces than before, and the Devil is out- 
 witted. And now I must go to bed. May Grod and His holy Angels watch 
 over me ! 
 
 ' Well, I am now fallen into that terrible fit of dryness, which I was so afraid 
 of. My Gi-od, Thou seest the state I am in ! How badly I pray, with what 
 distractions ! with what indifference ! It is very terrible, and of all the trials 
 God sends the hardest to endure. It matters little what we suffer, if only we 
 can speak to Him, and pray and feel Him near to us ; all then becomes easy. I do 
 not ask, my Grod, not to have trials — on the contrary, I desire them — I do not 
 want to be too happy ; I am frightened when I think I have had as yet nothing 
 but happiness in my life ! I am afraid of earthly joys ; I always fear they will 
 delay those of Heaven, and that an uninterruptedly happy life can never earn 
 the same reward as one full of sufferings, but Thou hast ordained everything, 
 my God, as is best for us. So there is nothing more to be said. Thou hast 
 made me what I am, and hast ordered my lot so as to make gratitude a ftimi- 
 liar word and an easy feeling to me, overwhelmed as I am with blessings. Thy 
 will be done ; perhaps Thou art preparing future trials for me, only do not de- 
 prive me of the power to pray. I suffer this evening ; it is an immense trial 
 not to be able to express my love to Thee, my God, to whom alone I would fain 
 belong. Have mercy on me. Everything seems to fail when my only strength 
 forsakes me. Prayerless days are lifeless days. Give me new life, my God, 
 my God ! Oh ! to die and be certain that one will never more commit sin, 
 never more offend God, to be for ever delivered from that terrible fear ! 
 
 *To think that I should offend Thee, my God, whom I love so devotedly ! and 
 I do offend Thee a thousand times over ; by slight offences, perhaps, but not 
 Blight in Thine eyes, when committed by those to whom Thou givest immense 
 happiness in devotion and prayer, by those to whom Thou makest goodness easy 
 and sin hard. ! yes ; a slight offence is a crime in me ; and my daily, hourly 
 fear is to commit faults. Send me sorrows, sickness, trials, but not the blind- 
 ness which takes evil for good, not that self-deceit wherewith we make to our- 
 selves a false conscience. That is what I most fear. My God, Thou hast said 
 we cannot serve two masters. My heart is too entirely devoted to Thee to be 
 still with the world, and therefore I am not at peace even in the midst of hap- 
 piness. It is only at Thy Feet I want to be happy, only in the utterance of 
 Thy adorable Name ; and, in fact, that is my only real joy. My heart beats 
 with that joy when I enter a Church, I repeat Thy Divine Name a thousand 
 times, and then the name of Mary, because Thy lips were wont to utter it. Let 
 me die rather than offend Thee. I love Thee, and Thee only, my God.' 
 
 'Boury, 1836. 
 * It is strange how often in the book we are reading a passage meets our eyes 
 which seems to fall in with our frame of mind at the moment. This is always 
 happening to me. This morning, after I had been thinking for a long time 
 that nothing can really make us happy but the love of God on earth, and then 
 death, which takes us to Him, I opened my little " daily monitor," and found in 
 it these lines for the day — 
 
 " Take my poor heart, and let it be, 
 For ever closed to all but Thee. 
 Seal Thou my breast, and let it wear 
 That pledge of love for ever there." 
 Ii2 
 
484 APPENDIX. 
 
 Yes ! my God, I will meditate upon Thee without ceasing. I will muse on the 
 day when I shall at last behold Thee. I will always think of death, that so I 
 may die thinking of Thee. How strange the world is ! Nothing seems to 
 worldly people more natural than to be engrossed with the love of a creature, 
 and they cannot understand how the love of Grod can take possession of a soul. 
 Would that my heart could be laid open, they would see then how true this is. 
 It is sweet, no doubt, to love as much as we can possibly love our dear ones on 
 earth, but nothing can be so sweet as to die and go to Grod. 0, my God, whom 
 I love supremely, what shall I do ? Thou hast said " We cannot serve two 
 masters." What shall I do, then ? I am Thine, and Thou art mine. Vouch- 
 safe, then, to take me to Thyself. 
 
 '"1. Out of the depths have I cried unto Thee, Lord; Lord, hear my 
 Toice. 
 
 ' " 2. Let Thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplication. 
 
 ' " 3. If Thou, ! Lord, wilt mark iniquities ; Lord, who shall abide it ? 
 
 ' " 4. For with Thee there is merciful forgiveness, and because of Thy law, I 
 have waited for Thee, Lord. 
 
 ' " 5. My soul hath waited on the Lord, my soul hath hoped in the Lord. 
 
 ' " 6. From the morning watch even until night : let Israel hope in the 
 Lord. 
 
 ' '* 7. For with the Lord there is mercy ; and with Him is plentiful redemp- 
 tion. 
 
 ' " 8. And He shall redeem Israel from all his iniquities." 
 
 * To think that this is a prayer for the dead ! each word is one of joy, hope, 
 and trust. 
 
 ' God condemns only those who despair, those who refuse to be saved. He is 
 always ready to forgive. What love there is in each of the words he addresses 
 to us, and how little in our thoughts of him ! ' . . . 
 
 ' March, 1836.— My God, everything is possible to Thee. I do not complain 
 of the trials Thou sendest in this world, but vouchsafe to hear the prayer which 
 I make with the deepest faith. Accept an exchange of trials. Let Albert re- 
 cover, and give me his illness. Let me suffer a long time, till I am fit to die, 
 and then let me go to Thee. This will still be a trial for them all, for they 
 will grieve to lose me. It is not therefore a release from suifering that I pray 
 for. What I ask is, for one suffering to be exchanged for another. I Imow 
 that trials are the only way to Thee. My God, everything is possible with 
 Thee. Remember the Centurion. Remember Jairus's daughter. Remember 
 all them who said to Thee with faith, "Heal this child," or " Heal this man." 
 See, my God, with what faith I cry, " ! Lord, heal Albert ! " Give me his 
 sickness, let it be terrible, let it be like a fire in my breast, to purify my heart. 
 Let my throat suffer sharply to make up for the faults of vanity I have com- 
 mitted when my voice was admired, and I took pleasure in being listened to. 
 Punish me, ! my God, for I am full of vanity. I will bless every pain, and 
 then when I shall have been ill a long time, Thou wilt let me die. ! every- 
 thing, everything to obtain that ! To obtain to go to Thee, my God, my only 
 Love ! There is no word impossible with Thee. Hear my prayer. The 
 world will be surprised, and it will say it is inexplicable ! Albert so weak and 
 so sickly, recovers : and Eugenie so strong, and so healthy, dies ! And I shall 
 say to myself: Cannot God do what He pleases? God has so willed it — this 
 explains it all. 
 
 ' Is it a foreboding that Thou wilt grant my request which makes me unable 
 to fix my thoughts on any future prospect as regards myself ? When marriage 
 is spoken of, an interior voice seems to whisper to me : " Do not trouble your- 
 self about it. It is of no use." Is this the voice of my Guardian Angel ? Dea;. 
 
APPENDIX. 486 
 
 Angel, carry up my prayer to God ; tell Him that to see Him is my true life ; 
 beg Him to let me die that I may live. On one side, ! my God, I picture to 
 myself a happy life, blessed by the affection of dearly beloved friends and rela- 
 tives — in short, the highest possible earthly bliss ; on the other, I see a long 
 painful sickness, and at the end of it. Thee, my God, the joy of going to Thee ! 
 and I choose the better part. Wilt Thou not say of me as Thou didst of Mary : 
 •' It shall not be taken away from her." ' 
 
 * April, 1 836. — I know my own weakness, but more than ever I come to 
 Thee. It is no self-deceit, is it, my God, to think I love Thee ? Accept my 
 love and the desire I have to belong to Thee in this world, or if I must tread a 
 more difficult path, if I may not be exclusively consecrated to Thy service, 
 then guard and protect the weakest of all Thy weak creatures ! My God, I 
 have a longing for Thy Churches, and to hear Thy Name spoken of. I long 
 for Thy love. Give me an immense charity ; take and purify my heart, and 
 make it love Thee, and keep it near to Thyself. How can I seclude myself ? 
 Let my lips speak, let my hands move for this tiresome world, but let my 
 heart cleave to Thee, and all my outward actions be gentle and patient, as well 
 as that heart which I beseech Thee to sanctify. Preserve it from vanity and 
 pride ; make it humble, and teach it to love Thee. 0, my God, only grant me 
 this!* 
 
   Venice, April 6th, 1836. 
 
 * What joys there are, my God, for those who love Thee ! They find Thee 
 everywhere ; Thou never betrayest or forsakest them, and when with one hand 
 Thou dost afflict, with the other Thou givest comfort. Our trials become joys, 
 for when we love we long to suffer. Thy Churches are like homes to me. I 
 draw a deep breath of grateful happiness when I enter them. I love Thee and 
 I love all mankind, but give me a yet more ardent charity. I felt a ray of it 
 fall on my heart this morning, during the ceremony of the blessing of the 
 ships ; as I looked at that immense multitude, a tender affection for all those 
 human beings, and for all mankind, seemed to fill my soul. I prayed for them 
 all, and it seemed to me as if I would have willingly suffered and died for each 
 one of them in particular. It is very seldom that I feel, to this degree, a real 
 fraternal affection for the whole human race. It is a grace, for every good 
 thing comes from Thee, my God ! Increase in me this feeling, and let me 
 never ascribe my good thoughts to myself. Give me a true humility, and ac- 
 cept the earnest desire I have, never to let pride or vanity swell my heart.' 
 
 (Here ends the portion of Eugenie's Journal, which Alexandrine saw at Ve- 
 nice. The subsequent pages were copied, at a later period, from various note 
 books, in which she continued to write her thoughts during that year 1836). 
 
 * My God, Thou dost justly call Thyself "the Life," and say that Thou givest 
 life to those who ask for it. Yesterday, my love was cold. I prayed without 
 feeling ; and a lifeless prayer is worse than death, so I sought Thee that it 
 might live again. This morning, whilst the priest was giving me absolution, it 
 was as if fire had descended into my cold heart. Tears came into my eyes, and 
 I was happy. What must be the love of Angels, the love of Saints, the love of 
 Heaven, since the love I feel, which can be only the mere shadow of a shade of 
 Thy Divine love, fills my soul, and burns in my heart during those short mo- 
 ments when Thou vouchsafest to visit me in a way, which, if it were to last, 
 must kill me! I can understand that an excess of love should end life when a 
 person has reached that state where nothing can draw him away from contem- 
 plation and adoration. They are too near Thee to remain on earth ! They be- 
 come angels, and die ; this has happened to some Saints.' 
 
486 APPENDIX. 
 
   Venice, April 9th, 1836. 
 
 ' I cannot help -weeping when I think that I shall return to the world, that I 
 shall lose the recollection of this time of holy fervour ; that I may be again 
 what I was before, that I may forget my God, and offend Him. ! my 
 Guardian A-ngel ! my beloved Angel ! who art beside me at this moment, and 
 who beholdest my tears, present them, I beseech thee, to God, implore Him to 
 accept them, and to send me in return help and strength, and consolation, when 
 I shall be cold, distracted, and in danger of forgetting Him.' 
 
 ' Venice, April 10th, 1836. 
 
 * To-morrow we leave Venice ! Sad as this time has been to us, I neverthe- 
 less feel a sort of regret at lea^dng this place as if I was parting with some one 
 I loved. This is always the case with me when I have enjoyed anywhere great 
 religious consolations. It seems to me as if by changing my abode my feelings 
 might also change. Alas, this is so often the case with me that I have reason 
 to apprehend it. I am so easily distracted. Here it seemed to me so easy to 
 love God. Each Church, as I look at it even from a distance, reminds me of 
 happy moments ; there is nothing gloomy to those who love God. The heart 
 is too full of hope and trust to admit gloom. And so, in spite of our fears and 
 our grief for Albert, I do not carry away a painful impression of Venice. I 
 never anywhere prayed so ardently for him as here. It seemed to me as if God 
 always heard those prayers, and now I am going. Thanks be to Thee, my 
 God, for all the fervent love, the thoughts of Heaven, the distaste of this world 
 I have been blest with here ; do not abandon me, I know too well my own 
 weakness. The least thing will draw me aside from that blessed path which I 
 have been lately treading ; perhaps Thou wilt permit this to happen as a punish- 
 ment for my proud thoughts. Every trial Thou sendest me I will bear, not in 
 my own strength, but in that which Thou wilt give me. Let me always love 
 Thee, and let my heaxt never attach itself to the world. IwUl have nothing to 
 say to it.* 
 
 * April nth, 1836. 
 
 * " Serve the Lord with gladness." 
 
 ' ! yes, my God, it is with joy, with rapture that I will love Thee, serve 
 Thee, and strive to please Thee in all things ! It gives me such delight to go 
 into a Church. This used not to be the case ; a change has come over me. 
 What must I then have been if now that I am still so wicked, so miserable, so 
 little well disposed, I am nevertheless improved ? We can do nothing of our- 
 selves, no, not even wish to be good. Thank God, he has given me that wish. 
 ! yes, I am certain I wish to love Him with all the ardour of which a human 
 hejut is capable, and then to obtain the grace of a more than human love. Our 
 souls must be inflamed by a love like that of the angels before they can draw 
 near to God. 
 
 ' My dislike to the world increases. What shall I do if I must live in it ? 
 Must I devote to it the time I have learnt to turn to account by consecrating it 
 to God ? Must I wean myself from Him ? 
 
 * Well, I can only wait ; whatever is to be my fate, God will pity His poor 
 child, and never forsake her. After having made me see and understand, 
 Lord, that there is nothing worth living for but Thy divine Self; after inspiring 
 me with the holy ambition of knowing no happiness but in Thee, never wilt 
 Thou permit me to be dazzled by the world, and to forget Thee. If riches, if 
 prosperity are to be my portion. Thou wilt preserve me from pride, and keep 
 alive in my heart the will to forsake everything for Thy sake. Everywhere I 
 may love Thee, and if it is not to be with the freedom, the tranquillity, and the 
 
APPENDIX. 487 
 
 attachment of a life consecrated to Thee alone, Thy holy will be done. But, in 
 that case, my God, increase in me the spirit of prayer and of perseverance, for 
 the road will be more difficult. 
 
 * Shakespeare says that it is happiness not to be born. no, that is not true, 
 for we must be bom in order to know and to love Grod. But the real happiness 
 is to die.' 
 
 ' Avignon, April 24th, 1836. 
 
 * Alexandrine was saying the other day that those who love Heaven have not 
 a strong feeling of love for their own country ! ! how I agree with her ! I 
 feel a complete indiflFerence to all earthly places. I would readily leave even 
 all those I have most cared about, if I thought that by changing or going from 
 one place to another I should get nearer to God. 
 
 ' The home of the soul {la patrie) is the place where we live and love and 
 would always be, or, if absent from it, where we pine to go. We can have no 
 real home but in Heaven, or if we must choose one on earth we shall find it in 
 God's Churches, in the places where He is worshipped beneath the Cross which 
 reminds us of His sufferings, and in the hearts which sigh for His love. 
 
 ' I do not care about this earth. I can hardly fix my eyes upon the loveliness 
 with which Thou hast adorned it. When my attention is called to a fine view, 
 in spite of myself I raise my eyes to the skies, more beautiful than everything 
 else, and I forget to admire the earth. I like to gaze on the sky, to fill and to 
 dazzle my eyes with its radiance. There is no sorrow which the sight of the 
 sky would not soothe ; for the only sorrow which I could not get over would be 
 to have displeased Thee, my God, and even then I should look up to Heaven, 
 for there alone could I find pardon. My God, be Thou my dream, my Thought, 
 my only Love, my only Home ! ' 
 
 *Aix, April 26th, 1836. 
 
 ' Heaven ! shall I ever be in Heaven ? My God, forgive the loving impa- 
 tience which makes life so irksome. Is it wrong to wish to die when it is that 
 we may see Thee ? It is not that I am afraid of trials or sufferings, nor does 
 it proceed from feelings of despondency. But life when not filled with the 
 thought of Thee, seems to me such a folly. Thou readest my heart. If it is 
 wrong to wish to go to Thee, take from me that wish — take it away, ! my 
 God ! all I ask is submission and humility.' 
 
 'April 27th, 1836. 
 
 ' I am afraid I shall live to be a hundred years old. God will punish my 
 presumptuous wish to die by an interminable life — ninety years of waiting, 
 ninety years of liability to sin. Wilt Thou condemn me to that, my God ? 
 How much harm I may do during that time ! And shall I be fit to die at the 
 end of it ? I shall never, I know, deserve to go to Thee, but at least the 
 younger I am when I die, the less shall I have widened, by my sins, the distance 
 between my God and me. 
 
 ' Purgatory is better than life — ^we are nearer to God in purgatory thaa on 
 earth. It purifies us for God.' 
 
   Paris, May 14th, 1836. 
 
 * 0, how beautiful this night has been ! I watched (by Albert), I prayed 
 and fervently, too, till morning. My God, I thank Thee, my God, I bless Thee, 
 for Thy great mercy to me. After a day of sad despondency Thou hast renewed 
 my courage. Thou hast made me feel that Thou wilt never forsake me. Once 
 this night my heart was so full that it seemed ready to burst. And yet all the 
 time I Was happy, calm, and satisfied. It is sad to return to this wearisome 
 life after forgetting, for a moment, everything but God. Yes, those words are 
 
488 APPENDIX, 
 
 not too strong. All I have felt this night came from G-od. I am not afraid of 
 being presumptuous in saying so. It is of Thee, not of myself, I think, in the 
 midst of these consolations. I feel no anxiety, and that perfect peace deepens 
 in nve the sense of Thy adorable Presence. 
 
 ' My Grod, I love Thee ! that was the cry of my soul this night. Did the 
 Angels carry up to the foot of Thy Throne those words which I would fain 
 utter and then die ? Yes, I would utter them, if I could, with a vehemence 
 ■which would kill me. I forgot, last night, everything but God, and felt myself 
 raised above this world. But whenever I returned to Albert, there also I was 
 calm and happy. 
 
 * I am just come from Church ; I did not hear Mass, and did not open my 
 book, but it did not signify. The sight of those young communicants gave me 
 80 many sweet thovights. I had, as at Venice, a feeling of great charity and 
 real love for all my fellow creatures, but especially for those children so blessed 
 by God to-day. If I could have been told that by suffering or dying for the 
 least of these little ones, I should preserve him from sin, or save him from 
 offending God, I should not have hesitated to do so. The thought of any one 
 never offending God makes my heart beat with joy. ! if by dying a thousand 
 times over I could destroy sin in the hearts of all men, God knows I would do 
 it. May he increase and confirm in me this desire, that charity which I so 
 ardently wish to possess. My God ! bless these children, bless them with the 
 remembrance of this happy day, in which they have received Thee for the first 
 time. How they hate sin at this moment, what promises they make never to 
 offend Thee ! Oh ! let these holy thoughts ever dwell in their souls, and pre- 
 serve them from the only dreadful evil, sin, and make me again, my God, what 
 I was on the day of my First Communion, and my heart as simple and pure as 
 the hearts of these pious little children.' 
 
 'Paris, May 20th, 1836. 
 
 ' Yesterday and to-day I have been frivolous. I thought of my dress, I 
 looked at myself in the glass, and though I certainly did not think myself 
 pretty, I did all I could t-o improve my appearance. In proportion as those 
 foolish ideas passed through my mind, God's grace seems to forsake my soul, 
 and a painful indifference to harden my heart. My vanity gets the better of 
 me on every occasion. Yesterday, M — said I had a fine voice, which flattered 
 me exceedingly, and, like a fool, I took great pleasure in singing before him. 
 My God, take away from me a voice which is a constant temptation to vanity ! 
 I am not pretty enough to care much for compliments about my looks, as I do 
 not, in general, believe them ; I am on my guard against their effect, but I 
 cannot help knowing that I have a good voice, and when I sing before people I 
 am aware that they think so. I sometimes quite hate that voice of mine, and 
 wish to lose it, as it is not to be employed for God's service alone. It is a gift 
 of His : I make a bad use of it, and should be glad if He took it away. . . . 
 I feel now that if I was religious, and heard nothing of the world, I should not 
 regret it. But if thrown into the midst of it with all my miseries and my weak- 
 nesses, who knows that I shall not give myself up to it with an ardour propor- 
 tionate to all the hatred I now have for it. Oh ! for a convent, a convent ! Some 
 place free from temptation, where I could go and assuage this great desire for 
 love and prayer ; where I would love only God ; serve only God ; and, ah ! I 
 must not forget it, obey only God ! Let me then not murmur, not rebel. Thy 
 will be done, my God ! But if I am not unworthy of that blessed peace, grant 
 me this blessing if it must be otherwise. Still I will adore and thank Thee ; 
 all that Thou sendest is to be welcomed.' 
 
APPENDIX. 489 
 
 ' Paris, May 29th, 1836. Trinity Sunday. 
 The day on which Alexandrine was received into the Church. 
 
 * ! Lord, ho"w to speak of this day, how to thank Thee for its graces, I know- 
 not. Thy sweet, dear little lamb has been gathered into the fold. Vouchsafe 
 to cherish and to comfort her, and, in return for her long years of banishment, 
 make her entrance into her true home a most joyful one. Bless her with Thy 
 best gifts, and if, in Thy great love, Thou wilt send her sufferings, give her 
 that boundless love for Thee alone, which will make her bear everything that 
 comes from Thy adorable Hand. 
 
 * Angels of Grod, watch over her — surround her. Let her peace be deep, and 
 her soul serene ! ' 
 
 •Paris, June 18th, 1836. 
 
 * I think I have discovered in myself a kind of indifference, which is not very 
 unlike insensibility ; I am not sure that to care as little as I do for the things 
 of this world may not, after all, indicate some amount of heartlessness : I have 
 also thought that I have an unsatisfactory sort of fervour, that everything with 
 me goes by fits and starts. At one moment I love the world, and I forget God ; 
 at another time I give way to an amount or excess of fervour, and while it lasts 
 I shoxild be ready to accuse even Saints of coldness. All this is not real devo- 
 tion. Shall I never possess a firm and steady piety ? I am still so deficient in 
 it. My heart and my mind are both sad to-night. I have thought so much, 
 and about so many opposite things. My head is confused. Have I offended 
 Thee, my Grod, so much that Thou wilt ho longer console me ? 
 
 * Vouchsafe to make roe feel that at the bottom of my soul I lovs Thee, and 
 then this sadness will be changed into an immense joy. Did I deceive myself 
 when I thought I loved Thee? when I longed for Thy love ? And this complete 
 submission of Thy will, which it seems to me I feel, is that a deception also ? 
 Is everything in me false ? What is it all, my Qod, and what am I myself ? ' 
 
 'Paris, June 19th, 1836. 
 'I am sent for to sing. I have always an involuntary wish to please. 
 Vanity must certainly be of all the bad tendencies of the human heart the most 
 difficult to eradicate. What a deplorable weakness it is ! I have a deceitful 
 mind and a weak heart. What sort of a person must I be then ? Well, such 
 as I am, my God, I give myself to Thee, with all my wretched pride and vanity. 
 It is not a costly offering I make Thee, but where shall weakness fly if not 
 there where strength is found — where everything is forgiven, everything purified, 
 and evil turned into good. Men would not tolerate my wretched weaknesses ; 
 men are very severe ; but God, God looks tenderly on our imperfections if we 
 wiU only suffer Him to forgive us, for it is only when the obstinacy of our will 
 rejects His pardon, that it is refused ; and indeed refused is not the word, God 
 never refuses. It is we who will not ask. He never, never rejects. Oh ! how 
 wide, how full of hope, joy, and consolation, is that thought ! My God, I bless, 
 adore, and glorify Thy Name ! Thou art the joy of my soul ! ' 
 
 The following letter ought not to be omitted in this record. 
 ' M. de Montalemberf s Letter after my Mothers Death. 
 
 'Valenciennes, November 24th, 1848. 
 
 * It was just as I was leaving Trelon and my family, to return to the noise 
 and confusion of Paris and the National Assembly, that I received your dear 
 
 2k 
 
490 APPENDIX. 
 
 husband's letter, and the news of your last affliction. Shall I own that even 
 whilst sjnnpathising with yoiir grief, I could not help feeling that holy joy which 
 diffuses itself like some Heavenly perfume in the soul, when we think of the 
 sufferings and death of the righteous. Oh ! certainly, I understand your 
 anguish, and I pity you who are condemned to outlive so many holy souls, once 
 your companions in this pilgrimage, but who have now left you behind to 
 mourn their loss and envy their lot. But what immense consolation you must 
 have derived from the sight of your mother's perfectly Christian end, of which 
 Craven has drawn a picture worthy of the subject. I share your consolation as 
 well as your grief; and in the thoughts that both suggest I find a little strength 
 and courage in the midst of the daily annoyances and even dangers of my 
 present life. The happiness of being a Catholic is never so great and intense 
 as in those moments when we see a Christian soul about to leave this world, 
 and setting the seal to the sublime truths professed through life, by a last 
 effort of virtue, by humility, and resignation. More than any one, almost, you 
 have known this blessing in the midst of the reiterated calamities which have 
 befallen your admirable family. The edifying description your husband has 
 given of that death-bed where you received your Mother's last blessing has 
 made me feel as if I had been present there. So soon after Alexandrine ! Yes, 
 it is very sad, very heartbreaking for you, but you must bear in mind that they 
 were both of them ripe for Heaven. And how beautiful and desirable Heaven 
 appears in presence of all the meanness, disgrace, and calamities which afflict 
 the world, and our poor country in particular ! 
 
 ' How often, in comparing the present crisis with that of 1830, has your image 
 and that of your family risen before me ! It was in 1831 that I was, so to speak, 
 aggregated to your family, and since that time you have been all more or less 
 associated with every event and emotion of my life. But death has been mer- 
 ciless ! Albert, Eugenie, your Father, Olga, Alexandrine, and your Mother ; all 
 successively carried off" within such a short time. And this gloomy year, 1848, 
 marked by two such irreparable losses ! What a subject for thought, for regret, 
 and for tears ; but also what a motive for us, the unhappy survivors, to remain 
 more closely united than ever ! I ardently desire that our friendship may 
 always continue. Thank your husband very affectionately for his admirable 
 letter. 
 
 * And now farewell, my dear, good, faithful friend, God bless and comfort 
 you ! and may He grant us yet to spend some peaceful days together. 
 
 ' Your devoted brother and friend, 
 ♦M.' 
 
 After having spent some years in the Society of Jesus, Alphonse Eatisbonne 
 left it in order to follow the original vocation to which he had felt himself 
 called at the time of his conversion to Christianity, but which he had then given 
 up out of a desire to make a more absolute act of self-abnegation. That voca- 
 tion was to devote himself to the conversion and the education of his brethren 
 the Jews. 
 
 The following conversation which I had with him on this subject, in 1 856, and 
 which I then wrote down in my journal, may perhaps be interesting. 
 
 'Paris, September 21st, 1856. 
 
 * Alphonse, or rather Father Marie Eatisbonne, has just returned from the 
 Holy Land. I had not seen him for six years, and should scarcely have known 
 him in consequence of the long beard which he wears like all the priests who 
 
APPENDIX. 491 
 
 have been in the East. But his eyes have still that same expression which 
 always struck me from the time of his conversion. 
 
 ' We talked for a long time of all that had taken place since we had last met. 
 He belonged then to the Society of Jesus, and has since left it. He spoke to 
 me of this resolution, and of what had brought it about in a simple, touching, 
 and persuasive manner, and with a most affectionate and filial reverence for the 
 great order in which the first ten years of his Christian life were spent. He 
 said he should always feel the happy effects of the training he had received 
 whilst preparing for the priestly and apostolic life, but that subsequently the 
 desire to devote himself to the conversion of the Jews had never ceased to pur- 
 sue him ; that he had, at last, determined to leave the Society, and consecrate 
 his life to his brethren, provided the Holy Father, when informed of his resolu- 
 tion, advised him to carry it out. 
 
 * It was therefore, with the highest sanction which a Catholic, whether priest 
 or layman, can obtain, that Alphonse Ratisbonne returned to his original voca- 
 tion. The congregation and works of our Lady of Sion, which his brother began, 
 and to which they now both devote themselves, has extended immensely, and 
 everything seems to show that Grod's blessing is upon it, that Alphonse Ratis- 
 bonne has found his true vocation, and is now occupying his appointed place in 
 the Church of God. 
 
 ' He has just returned from Jerusalem, and when he speaks of what he felt 
 in the Holy City, his descriptions differ from those even of the most pious 
 travellers. He is not eloquent : he speaks slowly and simply. He does not 
 seem to attend to the choice of his words, but he succeeds in conveying to others 
 the strength of his own convictions. The expression of his eyes ; the sound of 
 his voice ; his very silence betrays " that there is that within which passeth 
 show." 
 
 ' The holy and touching desire which fills his mind at this moment is the 
 purchase at Jerusalem of the Terrace of Pilate's palace, the actual scene of the 
 " Ecce Homo," which is now in the hands of the Turks. He wishes to establish 
 there a house of his order, so that on the same spot where, eighteen hundred 
 years ago, rose the fearful cry, "Let His Blood fall on us, and on our children ! " 
 there should now arise, day and night, prayers of repentance and expiation from 
 the lips of those very children. May God bless this project, and him who con- 
 ceived it ! * 
 
 This plan has now been fully carried out. 
 
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