True Love

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True Love

True love

By Laure Conan



I


I have witnessed in my life a heroic sacrifice. The one who has it
made and he for whom it was made are now in eternity.
I am writing these few pages to make them known. Their memory
followed me everywhere, but it's mostly here, in this house where everything
reminds me of them, which I love to stir _the ashes of my heart._

O my God, you are infinitely good to all your creatures, but
you are mostly good to those you afflict. You know which
empty they left in my life and in my heart, and yet even
in my bitterest sorrows, I feel a huge need for you
thank and bless you. Yes, be blessed, for giving me the
happiness to know and love them; be blessed for this faith
profound, for this admirable generosity, for this so great
power of love that you had put in these two nobles
hearts.

(Thérèse Raynol to her mother.)

Malbaie, June 14, 186.

Dear mother,

The trunk won't leave until tomorrow, but why don't you write this
evening? I'm pretty sure you're bored already, and I
keep in mind that you will not be long in following your dear
imperfect. I have chosen the room next to mine for you. In
waiting for you to take possession of it, I put the cage of my
bullfinch, to which I just said goodnight. But you have to
talk a bit about my trip, which was not without interest. You
remember this young man whose courage was so admired at the fire
from our hotel in Philadelphia. Can you imagine that my very tall
surprise, I found him among the passengers. His name is Francis
Douglas. I can now tell you her name, because I made her
knowledge tonight.

We had barely left Quebec, when I saw it,
walking on the gallery with the port of an admiral. I recognized him
at first glance, not without emotion, to put it bluntly.
If this surprises you, please consider that you cry
of admiration in speaking of the heroic courage of this stranger; of
the admirable generosity with which he had exposed himself to a death
dreadful, to save a poor puny old woman who was not
nothing. After having walked for a long time in the front of the boat, he entered
the living room. This knight, who risks his life to save the old women
crippled, we glanced distractedly. Opening his travel bag,
he picked up a book and was soon absorbed in reading it.
Do you know this handsome boy? asked Mrs. L ... - Which one? I said
hypocritically. "" The one who just entered. "" No, "I replied. I do not
did not speak of his fine deed. Why? I don't know, dear
mother. But I looked at him often, without him appearing to be, and I thought
was saying that I wouldn't be sorry to know everything that
looked. Won't you be proud of your big girl's reason,
if I confess that I caught myself calling it a storm! It's good
natural. I would have liked to see how he behaves in a shipwreck.
Unfortunately, this wish so wise, so reasonable, so charitable,
did not come true.

I was asked for music. I had just read a few pages
d'Ossian - which is no longer new; - I played an old melody
Scottish. Monsieur closed his book and listened to me with pleasure
obvious. He's Scottish, I thought, and you'll see that I don't
was not mistaken. He did not resume his reading, and something in his
expression told me that his thought was far, far away - in the
mountains and heather of Scotland.

Not having seen him disembark at La Malbaie, I assumed that he
was on his way to Tadoussac. After supper I was with a few ladies
in the hotel lounge. Judge my surprise when I saw him
enter with this good Mme L ..., who introduced him to us.

Mr. Douglas told me of the pleasure he had felt on hearing a
air of his country, and these few simple and true words said
eloquently his love for his homeland. I assure you that I was
not at my ease, near this hero. It seemed to me that he was reading in
my soul, and as I realize that I care a little too much
him, every time I met his gaze my shyness
was increasing. In vain I told myself that I am not _transparente_,
I couldn't persuade myself. It is certain that I do not
did not do honor. Mr. Douglas, who was perfectly at
comfortable, tried several times to strike up a conversation with me,
and does not succeed, as you might expect. But if I didn't speak
not enough, I have the consolation of saying that others spoke too much.
Two ladies ventured into a sentimental essay
with a gallant officer. You can easily imagine that this
dissertation did not throw a little light into the abyss
of the human heart.

I was about to enter my room, when the brilliant Miss X ... said to me
with ill-disguised satisfaction: "Thérèse, my dear, like you
were awkward and embarrassed tonight! What opinion you will give
from Canadian women to this attractive foreigner! "Be proud of me, after
that. But it doesn't matter. If the fire catches tonight at the hotel, I hope
that this savior of old paralyzed widows will not let me
burn.

(The same to the same.)

Malbaie on June 23, 186

Dear mother,

I want and I will be angry for a long time with these gloomy affairs that
hold back away from me. Even I'm not sure if you don't
want a little. Obstacles to the four winds of heaven! Believe me,
everything is vanity, except walking on the foam and breathing the satin.
Get off quickly. I look forward to doing you the honors of La Malbaie.
Kamouraska has its amenities. I have a weakness for Tadoussac, for
her memories, for her pretty bay, as big as a shell, but the
Malbaie does not compare.

This beauty of beauties has contrasts, surprises, whims
strange and charming. Nowhere have I seen such a variety
aspects and beauties. The grandiose, the pretty, the picturesque, the
sweet, savage magnificence, laughing grace collide, mingle
deliciously, harmoniously, in these incomparable landscapes.

O my beautiful Saint-Laurent! O my beautiful Laurentians! oh my dear
Canada! Excuse this lyricism: tomorrow is our national holiday.

La Malbaie has only one fault, the influx of foreigners. If I was
queen, I would be content with this enchanted countryside for my
kingdom, but I would forbid entry first to all those who
read novels, then to anyone who thinks they are qualified
to govern and reform their country. What do you think? But meanwhile,
it is a noise, a movement, a continual coming and going.

Foreigners here only have the obligation to do nothing. As well,
as we walk there. Every day, picnics, parties of
pleasure of all kinds and balls in the evening. For me I would give all
past, present and future picnics, all impromptu balls
and prepared, for a swim in the sea.

I go to mass every morning, usually by the strike, this
which is very pleasant. The church is built on the river, at
the mouth of the Malbaie river. It is a very beautiful site. In front,
the bay, - this charming bay that we compare to that of Naples, - to
right of magnificent fields, a richly wooded height, where
sing the birds and the summer breezes; on the left, the river, then
the Cap-à-l'Aigle, wild and graceful, and behind the mountains
green and blue that close the horizon. The church is fine
maintained.

"_The century was two years old_" when we started
to build. It's still young for a church. Yet the
swallows love it, for the nests touch each other, and,
eyes, you can always see some pretty little head coming forward
curiously outside.

I guess we need to tell you a little bit about Mr. Douglas. It is
quite likely that I take care of him more than I should; But,
besides that I do not say anything about it, I do in this only like all the
world. I only told Mrs. L ... that Mr. Douglas is the hero of
the hotel fire. She advised me to wisely keep the
silence on that. She claims he's dangerous enough without
the halo of heroism.

You, dear mother, you claim that it is a great pity that this
noble young man is not very ugly, or a little misshapen. With
your permission, madame, that is precisely what would be a pity.
Dear mother, it may be prudent, what you say, but suddenly
of course, it is not feminine. Besides, if Mr. Douglas is from
family of the brave, he is not from that of the gallants, and does
of attention that just what it takes not to be rude. he
declines all invitations and seems to have said like a
poet:

  To _me_ the lonely strike,
  The hunt for the beautiful rising sun,
  To _me_ the woods full of mystery,
  Fishing at the shore of the dormant lake.

Mrs H ... said we should all find against him a
treaty of offensive alliance.

Dr. G ... is in La Malbaie and is engaged in observation. He finds
that the Scottish ribbons have been in favor since the arrival of Mr.
Douglas, and bitterly complains of being doomed to hear so much
of Scottish tunes, since the same date. What it is, he says, to have
the knightly twist! Me, I spent several years in
Scotland, and nobody thought of learning _Vive la canadienne_,
or _At the clear fountain_. Mr. Douglas is wealthy, and Dr. se
likes to inform ladies who have daughters to marry. It
makes you pensive, he said.

Tonight the doctor, Elmire and I went to visit the
wild. It's curious to see. The evening was cool. A beautiful fire
of dry branches blazed in front of the huts. I saw Mr. Douglas
who was warming himself and chatting with the savages. Seeing it in
that reddish light, I remembered the fire, and, to say
true, my heart beat a little hard; power of memory,
involuntary homage to courage and generosity!

As we were about to leave, the Dr was hastily called for a
sick and we were returning alone, when Mr. Douglas joined us and
claimed the honor of escorting us, which we deigned to grant.
I was a little surprised, I admit, because he added, with naivety
very strange in a man of the world: I thought I was wrong
to let you go alone, and, after reflection, I hastened
to join you. '' We understand, sir,
you thought it was a duty. - No, Miss, I have
only thought it was attention you had
right, and he continued a little proudly: Defend yourself, if you
run some danger, it _would be a duty_.

I am inclined to believe that this duty would be well fulfilled, and if I ever
will take a walk among the cannibals, I will pray to Mr. Francis Douglas
to give me his arm. He watched in the living room, against his habit. he
is certainly not as beautiful as they say, but it has a
rare distinction and incomparable grace.

  Grace more beautiful than beauty.

As you can see, this is quite sufficient. It is rather serious
than playful, but we chat well with him. You will like its simplicity
charming. We conversed in French, and on this we were told
graciously makes it understood - to Elmire and to me - that our
English pronunciation tires him a lot, since he speaks to us
French. Isn't it beautiful to think so quickly of the troubles of his
next?

Whatever the susceptibilities of Mr. Douglas, one thing sure,
is that he speaks French perfectly, and one more thing nicely
also certain, it is that I would rather not tire him in any way. I
asked him how he found our savages. Well fallen,
miss. They are not tattooed and bad civilization
wins. When I sat by their fire they didn't introduce me
the peace pipe. What nickname the savages of old him
would they have given? Think about it, please.

Dear mother, come down quickly and bring me a big bouquet of roses.
I am bored and I love you.



Extracts from Thérèse's diary.

June 24.

This morning, very early, Elmire and I went to the
Harvieux chapel. The ride is rough on the extreme strike
Pointe-aux-Pics: no _sable d'or_, but when you have a sure foot,
it's lovely to walk on these beautiful _screens_ washed by the sea.
O scent of kelp! O perfumes of the saline! How good it is
feel alive and wander like a lark on the balmy shore!
The birds were singing in the trees that crown the cliff.
Columbine grows everywhere in the cracks of the rocks. These pretty
red bells make a charming effect on the arid rock. What
more like a flower in the moss or a flower on a rock?
Alas! there are women who only like flowers on their
hats, and for whom a walk in the rue Notre-Dame has more
charms than a run in the woods or on the shore! And so what
philosophize?

The Harvieux Chapel is one mile from the wharf. It is simply
a cave seven to eight feet deep, carved into the rock
about ten feet from the ground. A long time ago a religious
Frenchman named Harvieux celebrated mass there. This missionary
went down the river by canoe to visit the settlers established on the
ribs and was held there by a storm. I like this loneliness
wild, and that she must be tall and sad when the wind moans and
let the sea give itself up to its formidable anger! But this morning everything
was calm and the gulls were coquettishly drying their feathers on
these rocks where they come to prophesy the storm.

June 26.

Today I was waiting for my mother, and I went to the arrival of the
boat, but disappointment. There was for me only a letter and a
bouquet of roses. I quickly ran away to read my letter. I
don't like those noisy crowds where coachmen and kids have the
high note. Elmire came to join me and after taking me
half of my bouquet, she decided to explore the strike
below the quay. We started by climbing the huge boulders
who are there, and we found there a deep cave half closed
by clumps of young cedars. The birds, it seems to me, must
love this cave in the morning, especially on autumn days, because the
rising sun fills it with rays and undoubtedly makes a
crowd of insects. But tonight she was full of shadow and
freshness. We stayed there for a long time. I had on the soul a
mist of melancholy. My mother will come tomorrow. It's just a delay
than a day, but that is enough to cause grief. The soul has such a sky
changing! Yet it was fine this evening! I left the cave
with regret. Poor cave, I said to myself, this morning it filled up
of sun, heat and life before the rest of nature that
surrounds it, and here it is full of shade while the sun shines
still everywhere, on Cap-à-l'Aigle, on the beautiful river, on the
distant steeples that sparkle along the southern coast. And I
was thinking of a soul that interests me and that sadness seems
to wrap up.

For me, so far, life has been very easy. It is true I
did not know my mother, it is hardly if I have a memory of
my father, and yet I was happy, because my stepmother loves me
with more than maternal tenderness. But how many open souls
in their beautiful childhood days to all the rays of the sky, more
enlightened perhaps that the others saw suddenly, by a
God's permission, the night invade them early!

  Alas! life is like the sea;
  Its wave, sometimes caressing on the beach,
  Foams off and becomes more bitter.

June 30th.

Mr. Douglas is a Protestant; I suspected it, and yet it was
painful to hear him say it.

At the first opportunity, my mother told her about her good behavior at
the Philadelphia fire. He blushed like a young girl and we
assured that in excitement one easily exposes his life. he
claims that his mountain agility has a lot to do with
we call his heroism.

My mother didn't hide from him like we wanted to know him, like
we were angry with him for shirking all the research.
I was a little confused, and he wasn't comfortable either. He has
smiled when I heard that until we left Philadelphia, I
I had persisted in dreaming for him a popular ovation. The smile has
a singular charm on his serious mouth, it's a pity that he is
so rare. Where does his usual sadness come from? First,
I had thought it was boring to be in the midst of strangers;
but it is not that. He is in great sorrow. Despite his calm, his
English reserve, one cannot see it for long without noticing it.
Why is he in pain? I'm doomed to hear about it well
guesses. Anyway, I'm sure it's not
a vulgar pain which darkens this noble brow. Until now,
I don't know anything about his life, except that he lost his parents
early and that he has neither sister nor brother.

He begged us not to say anything about the fire in Philadelphia. Is,
I won't say anything about it, but I think about it often. Noble young man! When
me and so many others only knew how to give our helpless
compassion, he exposed himself with sublime generosity. What perfume
such a memory must leave in the soul! Often looking at him
I wonder what he must have felt when he was alone afterwards
to have avoided the applause of the crowd. I never
will know the joy of heroic dedication, but I thank God
to have witnessed a truly courageous action, really
disinterested, truly generous. Admiration uplifts the soul and
satisfies one of the sweetest needs of the heart.

July 8.

I often feel worried and confused. Where is the calm, the serene
carelessness of my youth? I am very different from myself, from
this poor me that I thought I knew. I would need solitude.
Hotel life bores me. There is on the other side of the bay, at the bottom of the
Cap-à-l'Aigle, a house whose isolated location would please me
many. There nothing would distract me from the sight and the sound of the
sea.

"Full of monsters and treasures, always bitter yet clear,
never so calm that a sudden breath could not disturb him
appallingly; is it the ocean or the heart of man?

"Rich and huge, and always wanting to get richer and bigger,
always quick to cross its limits, always forced to
return, imprisoned by grains of sand: is this the heart of
man or ocean?

"Ocean! Heart of man! When you have bellowed well, well torn the
shores, you take for booty some sterile debris which is
lose in your depths! "

July 12.

Finally, I know the cause of his sadness, and I also know what is
this feeling which I took for a lively admiration.

Why did I stay here? I should have run away from him. Now it's
too late.

Yesterday we chatted intimately. He told me about the friend he has
lost, and the unspeakable joy I felt when I heard him say that he
had never liked that his friend was a revelation to me. Oh my God!
have mercy on me. I know, _the one who does not have the Church for
mother cannot have you for a father; _ I know that, but it is
impossible not to love him.

July 30.

Mr. Douglas always talks to me about his friend, but with such a sensitivity
true, so deep, that it is impossible to hear it without being
touched beyond all that can be said. Listening to it, I
recalls the words of David weeping for his Jonathas: "I loved you
as women like. "

He showed me the portrait of his friend and some of his letters.
I read them with deep affection, and now I
understand the depth of his regrets. Why friendship, so rare
in men, is it even more so in women? Two years
soon Charles de Kerven died. I often think of this
poor young man who sleeps over there, on the land of Brittany. I love
to pray for him. He had great misfortunes, he died in the flower
of age, but he was deeply loved by the noblest man
that ever was.



II


(Feast of Saint Bernard)

Saint Bernard said to the Blessed Virgin: "I agree not to hear
never bet of you, if anyone can say he relied on you
without being helped. "Good saint! I want to remember this saying,
every time I say the _Souvenez-vous_ for Francis.

Oh! august Virgin, my sweet mother, please make my
love for him never displeases your very pure eyes, and deign
yourself offer it to God.

This afternoon, I was on the strike with several friends. We talked
of Mr. Douglas' forthcoming departure for Scotland. I didn't believe it, and
yet what weight these words put on my heart! If it was
true ... if he were to leave, I said to myself ... and will he not
that he leaves one day? This thought overwhelmed me, overwhelmed me. As
I felt I was being watched, I took a pretext to go away. Not
never hear it! Never see him again!

O my God, what would be the misfortune of losing you forever;
since the mere thought of being separated from him made me so
suffer cruelly!

I walked haphazardly on the shore; suddenly seeing the
steeple shining in the sun, I thought of the one
consolation for all pain, and I walked to
the church. Soon I heard, behind me, this light step that I
know so well, and a moment later Mr. Douglas joined me.
Is it true that you are leaving soon? I asked him - And how
would I live without you? he replied quickly.

Then troubled, moved, he told me that with me he would console himself for death
of his friend ... that he had believed his life shattered forever, but that I
had restored his faith in happiness. We then walked without
exchange a single word. As we climbed the little hill that
led from the strike to the public road, he said to me in a low voice:
your eyes must not see those tears other than me. Yes,
it was true, I was crying without realizing it. When we were at
church: I was coming here, I told him. Him, calling me for the first
times by my baptismal name, asked me gravely: Thérèse, why
were you crying? I felt myself blush, and finding nothing to say,
I say to him: Leave me, I will pray for you. He opened it to me
church door.

O my God, what happiness to pray for him, you, the arbiter
sovereign of his eternal fate! He is not the child of your Church,
and because of that I would have liked not to like it, but you have me
given for him all the devotion and all the tenderness. Ô
Christ, my savior, I know that _every perfect gift comes from you_,
but remember my ardent prayer, and make me deserve for
him faith; make me deserve her by any pain,
by any sacrifices. And you, my divine mother, I you
promise to love you, to honor you for him and for me,
waiting for him to know you.

As I knelt before the altar of the Blessed Virgin, for him
uphold that promise, the sunlight, sliding through
the stained-glass windows made the statue like a halo of joy and glory;
her sweet face seemed to smile.

I went out very calm and very happy. Mr. Douglas had been waiting for me.
He spoke little along the way and made no hint at what
had happened between us, but we understood each other perfectly.
On the shore, a poor woman painfully picked up the branches
brought by sea.

"Let's make her happy too," said Francis.

He gave me his purse and I gave it to the poor old woman, who
received by blessing us.

We walked in silence.

I had never felt so happy to live.

The birds were singing, the sea was singing and my soul was singing too. he
seemed to me to breathe life in the scents of the woods, in the
scents of the sea. On the horizon, the sun was sinking. We sat down
on the rocks to watch him sleep. I will never forget this
picture: in front of us, the Saint-Laurent so beautiful under its fiery adornment;
in the distance, the blue mountains; everywhere a flaming splendor on this
enchanting landscape. Francis looked excited, but his noble
face suddenly darkens.

--Why do the sunny days have to end, he said to me
sadly.

I was happy, delighted, delighted, and I said to her:

- Let us not be ungrateful. Look around, and tell me what
will be the homeland, since exile is so beautiful.

He looked at me with an expression I'll never forget, and
replied in a low voice:

- Say instead: Look in your heart.

And a little later he continued:

--Love makes the sky understand, but this beautiful sunset
reminds that life passes.

The evening was spent at the hotel. Francis was very serious, but there
had a penetrating sweetness in his voice that is not his
ordinary, and when I met his gaze, I could see this
fleeting light that sometimes crosses his eyes like lightning. He ... not
hardly spoke to me; but, without doing anything to attract attention,
he has the charming art of letting me see that he is taking care of me. This
good Mrs L ..., addressing Mlle V ... and me, pointed out to us
that Mr. Douglas looked happy.

`` What I see best is that he's very good, '' replied Mlle.
V ..., - who prides herself on always saying what she thinks, and a moment
then she added: - I would like to know why it is this evening
as serious, as collected as a Jesuit coming out of retirement.


21st of August.

As I opened my window this morning, a deftly thrown bouquet
fell at my feet. '' Thank me, '' said Francis when we
- I thanked, but with restrictions on
way of offering the flowers. He listened to me with that smile that lights up
her face - and my heart too.

`` If you only knew, '' he said, `` how long I had been waiting for
give it to you!

And he sang in a low voice:

  At the hour when the rose awakens,
  Shouldn't you wake up?

I took her bouquet to church. I want it to fade in front of the
holy sacrament, and when it is withered, I will go and take it back to
always keep. Lord Jesus, you are in our midst and he
does not know you. He doesn't believe in the mystery of your love. But
you can open his soul's eyes, and make him fall believing
and thrilled at your feet.

Today I went to see a dead girl at night
last. I needed to fill myself with some serious thought, because
I was as if intoxicated with my happiness. I stayed a long time next to the
bed where the poor child was lying in that scary attitude
which belongs only to death. The black cross cut lugubriously
on the whiteness of the sheet that covered it. I lifted the shroud and
looked for a long time. Ah! Francis, would it be possible not to love us
that for this passing life?

Everything passes and we will pass like everything else, but I want that
the one of us who will outlive the other can say what Alexandrine
la Ferronnays wrote after Albert's death: "O my God,
remember that not a word of tenderness was exchanged between
us, without your name being spoken and your blessing
implored. "

September 7.

Yesterday, we took a walk in Île-aux-Coudres, excursion
that the presence of Francis made me really delicious. Then there
now has in my soul something that gives nature a
splendor that I did not know him. My God, what will be the
delight to love you in your beautiful sky, since, from this
life, there is so much happiness in loving your creatures!

At Jacques-Cartier Harbor, we knelt at the place where
Mass was said for the first time in Canada. I did not look
not Mr. Douglas. It was painful for me to see him a stranger to feelings
may this memory wake up. But on the rock where the blood of
Jesus Christ sank, I asked for faith for him. Yes my god
you will answer me. I'll see him Catholic. This cold Protestantism
is not for him.

We had dinner on the grass, in the vicinity of the rock
weeping. This part of the island is ravishingly beautiful. There is
a deep calm reigns, a delicious freshness. The day had this
special charm in the fall. Francis seemed delighted, and
forgot himself in front of this beautiful nature.

"It's beautiful, and I am happy," he said to me.

--So, thank God, because I too am happy.

He didn't answer, but I saw this luminous flame shine which
sometimes lights up in his eyes.

Conversations died down; I don't know why my soul inclined
suddenly to sadness: our life is passing, I thought as I listened
the sound of the waves on the shore, each wave carries a moment.
Almost without realizing this movement, I turned to
Francis:

--You know this thought of a famous woman: Are we
happy, the limits of life press us on all sides.

--It's painfully true.

And we talked about this thirst for the infinite that is our torment and
our glory. His sensitivity, so lively and so deep, made him
sometimes eloquent. I had never understood, as when listening to him,
our _misère very auguste_, our _grandeur very miserable_.
I would have liked to tell him what strength Catholics find in
communion, but I did not dare. You must have received Jesus Christ in
his heart, to understand the joy of this union which extinguishes all
desires_. Elmire's beautiful voice sang:

  Fly high, close to God; the only faithful loves are with him.

These words marked me, and Francis noticed it. He began to me
talk about his love for me:

--I would rather hear you say that you love God.

He answered me with incomparable gentleness:

--If you loved her less, I wouldn't love you as I love you
love.

He was asked to sing. He consented and said to me:

--I have never sung since the death of my poor Charles, but
today it seems to me that I will find sweetness in you
sing something that this dear friend loved and sang often.

He began the _Farewell to Schubert_. Ah! what emotion, what
power of feeling there was in his voice, and as I would have
wanted to be alone to cry at my ease! How touching is this
friendship that survives death, time and love! Certainly I am
deeply sensitive to everything that touches him. I would give my life
to spare him a pain, and yet I see with a kind of
joy that nothing will ever fully console him for the death of his
friend. It is so good to be loved with a heart that does not forget! Yes,
I know he will always miss his friend, all my tenderness will be
powerless to console him completely, but also, if I died,
no one would replace me in his heart. God alone could
to console, and of him I am not jealous.

We left the island towards evening. The return was enchanting. I
looked around me, and a deep security, a peace
inexpressible filled my heart.

O my God, you are good, life is sweet and the earth is
pretty!


Thérèse's wedding was scheduled for the following summer. In the month of
June she wrote in her diary:

"My God, why don't you answer me? I've been waiting for so many
continual prayers that I make do for him, and here I am
very close to despair.

This morning, I met Francis on leaving the church of the Gesù.
I had prayed for him. I dared to tell him, and the first time
of my life, I told him of my hopes for his conversion. He ... not
did not hide his discontent and replied with coldness
icy:

- I apologize in favor of your intention. And he added. Oh! the
harsh and cruel words! "" You are strangely mistaken. I never
will not be Catholic. How dare you tell me about what you
call your expectations?

As if I could always hide from her the most ardent wish of my
heart! But no, he doesn't want me to ever tell him about it.
you will be my wife , he said, don't make me
defend .-- Either. I won't tell him about it. It's not about what
I could tell him that I matter.

O my God, you will have mercy on him. You will light up this soul, a
of the most generous you have ever created. I ask you in the name
of Jesus Christ, make me suffer whatever you please, but
give him faith _without which you cannot please_.
Alas! who knows to what extent the prejudices of education
first blind the most upright and noblest souls? "

The same day Thérèse received the following letter from Mr. Douglas:

"I hurt you and I am very unhappy. Like you
must have found me rude and hard! Please forgive me because
that I love you. If you only knew what I felt when I saw you
almost fearful in front of me! I would have liked to kneel down to
beg your pardon. Seeing your tears ready to fall, I feel
saved like crazy.

My Thérèse, I would rather die a hundred times than to make you
suffer. I wanna see you cry, but as you cry
after hearing the confession of my love. If you knew like this
memory is delicious to me, as my heart often refers to this
hour, the sweetest of my life, when, on the Malbaie beach, I
saw your tears flow, those tears that you did not feel, so much
you were moved.

My friend, I should never have spoken harshly to you, I regret it
many and still ask your forgiveness; but, leave it to me
say, telling you that you should not try to change my
religious beliefs, I was only doing my duty. I could you
explain perfectly why I will never be a Catholic. I
will do nothing, neither now nor later, out of respect for the
candor of your faith. Whether you want what you call my
conversion, it may be very natural, but I must not
to speak _jamais._ I am not one of those who change religion.
Please, my dear Thérèse, do not touch this question anymore
burning. I have suffered enough.

Charles also wanted to see me Catholic, and the day before his death,
he pressed me on this subject with extreme tenderness. In the state where it
was, I dared not tell him that I would never share his
beliefs. He understood it. And he, the guardian angel of my youth,
asked God for forgiveness and accused himself of having me, through his
examples, far from true faith.

Ah! Therese, if I could tell you what I suffered in this
moment and by this memory, you would have pity on me, and you would not
would never ask for what I cannot grant.

After that Charles did not speak to me about religion any more; but, attracting me to
him, he held my head against his heart for a long time, and then,
this incomparable friend advised me to seek my consolation in
joys of charity. Admirable advice that made me endure my
misfortune!

In what I have just told you, there are, I know, several
things that will afflict you, and I am sadder than you
would know how to believe. But he _ had to_. Yes, you have to
know, my estrangement from Catholicism is invincible. I have
yielded to all the demands of your Church, because without it,
you would not marry me, but i will die in the religion where he has
please God to give birth to me, and never try to influence me
on that, because, as true as I love you, I will not allow you
not. Besides, you know, that I will faithfully and faithfully hold this
that I promised.

No doubt, my dear Thérèse, it is sad that there is a point
which our hearts will never touch, but don't go to conclude
that we will love each other less. Think about the attachment I had
for Charles, to his friendship, which was the happiness of my life, like his
death was the great, the inexpressible pain. So do not have
worry, no fear. I cannot be Catholic, but I will be
always your most secure and loving friend. Besides, since
God directs everything, even the flight of the birds, is not he who we
reunited?

After the first months of my mourning, those who were interested in me
advised me to get married. I let it be said, and, according to the desire
Charles, I took care of the unfortunate. It was the only consolation
that I could taste. Later, I thought of marriage; I inclined to it
by the need to love, so great in my heart; but I needed
high and deep affection, love as I understood it
in the most solemn, most heartbreaking moment of my life. God
led me to you, who are all i wish, all that
I dreamed, towards you, of all the truest women, the most
loving and purest.

Tell me, Therese, do you really believe that the difference
religion puts _ an abyss between us? _ O my friend, how
could you say this cruel word?

It is true, we do not profess quite the same faith, but,
both of us know that God loves us and that we must love him;
both of us know that helping the poor is a joy and
a sacred duty; both of us believe that Jesus Christ has
redeemed by his blood. My noble Thérèse, my dear fiancee,
therefore do not be afraid of being my wife; don't be afraid to lean
on my heart for until death do us part by order of
God."



III


There were ten years last August 14, in this same room where I write
today, Thérèse Raynol and Francis Douglas signed their contract
of marriage. I seem to see them still, so young, so charming, so
happy!

I had the highest esteem for Mr. Douglas, and yet I
saw the wedding day arrive with deep sadness, because
I loved Thérèse with the greatest tenderness, and the only thought
to part with it was very bitter to me. Reading the contract, these
provisions in favor of the spouse who survives the other
made a painful impression, and while I was being congratulated on this
brilliant marriage, I had great difficulty in containing my tears.
Why must death be involved in everything in life? But these
sad reflections were personal to me. The conversation is
kept lively and happy among the people invited for the
circumstance. We laughed, we sang, we made music in this
house where death was going to enter.

Shortly after the guests left, as Mr. Douglas rose to
withdraw: "Don't go yet," said Thérèse to her, "I want you
sing the _Salve Regina_, that is to say, she continued with her
lovely smile, i used to sing it every night and
today I want you to listen to me. This song to the Virgin was
one of our sweetest and dearest habits. Thérèse's voice
was very beautiful, and that evening she put on it an indescribable expression
of trust and love. Ah! how the Virgin, mother forever blessed,
could she not have heard this ardent prayer? Mr. Douglas, more
moved that he did not want to appear, kept a deep silence. Therese
approached him and said: Francis, my dear friend, won't you
may the Blessed Virgin protect us and keep us? He didn't answer,
but looked at her for a few moments with an expression
indefinable, then bade us good evening, and left.

I followed Therese to her room. After the prayer, which we made
together, she took the charming bouquet of roses that Francis gave her
had brought that day and placed it before the image of the Virgin.
Returning to my room, I prayed fervently asking God for
strength to endure the estrangement of my darling daughter. Alas! than
I was far from foreseeing the terrible blow which was going to strike me!

I had been sleeping for some time when I was awakened by a dream
annoying. I got up to recover, and I went into the bedroom
by Thérèse. She was sitting on her bed, her face so altered, so
upset that a horrible fear gripped my heart; she tried
yet to smile while telling me that she felt a strange
pain in the throat. I immediately sent for a doctor. When I
came back, she asked me to place a candle in front of the image of the Virgin
and wanted to light it herself. Then, joining her hands, she
gathered in fervent prayer. Then she gave me her arms
around her neck, drew me closer to her, and made me kiss the crucifix that
I gave her the day of her first communion, and she had
always worn since.

`` Mother, '' she said, `` you know that the will of God must always
to be worshiped and blessed. I never felt like an orphan,
she continued quite moved, because you were for me the
best of mothers; may God reward you and console you,
she added with an effort, for I know I am going to die.

- My child, I answered all troubled, how can you speak
so? Suffering leads you astray.

She looked at me; I still see the expression of her beautiful calm eyes
and deep.

"Listen," she said; I offered my happiness and my life to God for the
conversion of Francis. My sacrifice is accepted, I'm sure.
Don't tell Francis. He better ignore it until
may God enlighten him.

These words resounded in my heart like his death knell. O my
God forgive me. It seemed to me that it was paying too much for the
salvation of a soul. I looked at her with bewilderment; I hugged him in
my arms as if to argue with death and I tell her through my
sobs:

--That's too cruel. Thérèse, my child, retract yourself.

"Let the good Lord do it," she replied simply. He will know
console you and him. I too had a moment of anguish
terrible, now it's over.

And then she told me that in seeing how Francis was still prejudiced,
blinded, despite the continual prayers she made for
her conversion, she had believed that maybe God wanted to make her
to contribute to her salvation more than by prayer, and that she had
offered his happiness and his life to get him faith.

From that moment I had no hope. With terrible pain,
but not surprisingly, I saw all the efforts of science fail
completely. Evil made progress as swift as it was terrible.
Thérèse asked for her confessor and Francis. The priest came first.
While he was hearing his confession, I approached a window
which overlooked the Gesù church. The lamp was shining in the
sanctuary, and I said to Christ, weeping bitterly: Lord,
have mercy on me! Does she have to die for him to be converted?
The night was delightfully calm and beautiful. Oh! what a contrast between
the desolation of my soul and the radiant shine of the heavens. I heard
arrive Mr. Douglas. I would have liked to meet him for the
prepare a little for the terrible truth, but I did not have the strength.
He entered with a shocked face. Not one of the doctors present
ventured a word of hope. The unhappy young man threw himself
in an armchair and hid his face in his hands. The door of the
Therese's room soon opened. I touched Mr.
Douglas, who stood up and followed me. The priest, still dressed in his
surplice, prayed before the image of the Blessed Virgin. Therese held out the
hand to Francis, who knelt beside his bed and sobbed like
a kid. So she got confused, a few tears rolled down her
face; but, soon recovering, she spoke to him firmly and
tenderness.

--Francis, she said, it is God's will. You have to
submit, for he is our Father. Dear friend, I will love you more at
heaven than on earth.

Mr. Douglas's pain was frightening, and my brave child
forgot his terrible sufferings to console and encourage him.
There was a choking that made it look like she was going to expire.
When it was past, she put her hand on Francis's head still
kneeling beside her, and looking up at the image of the
Virgin:

--Mother, she said with an accent I will never forget,
does not know, he does not love you; but I who by the grace of God,
know you and love you, I entrust it to you, I give it to you, I
dedicate it to you. Obtain from Jesus Christ, I beseech you, that he
brings us together for eternity in his love.

She received the sacraments with celestial fervor, and immediately after
the agony began.

I pass over this hour, the memory of which has remained so cruel to me. AT
five o'clock, just at the first ringing of the Angelus, she expired.
Gradually, I felt her sweet face grow cold. So taking the
crucifix that his icy hands were still clutching, I gave it to
Francis.

Two sisters of charity came to bury him. When everything was
finished, I entered the death chamber, that the nuns
had adorned with pious care. The flowers spread a scent there
sweet. Mr. Douglas was on his knees near the bed on which Therese
seemed to sleep in her graceful white wedding dress. His
the veil fell half over her charming face, pale
transparent. A rosary, with coral grains of a brilliant red,
had passed around his neck, and the cross shone in his joined hands.
I kissed her soft lips, her eyes closed forever, and her
looked for a long time.

On the morning of the funeral, when the time came to put it in his
coffin, Francis approached, took Thérèse's left hand, put her
her wedding ring, and then he kissed her on the lips. The
young man, as pale as she, propped up his head while I
cut her beautiful brown hair; then, taking her in his arms, he
laid her down on the supreme rest bed. We stayed a long time at the
watch, and my thoughts went back to the days of old, so
that after having put her to sleep in my arms and lying in her baby
bed, I forgot to watch her sleep. Finally, Francis raised his
veil, and slowly, still keeping his eyes fixed on her, he
covered his face. O my God, when I appear before you,
remember what I suffered at that terrible time!

After the funeral I was brought a note from Mr. Douglas. he
announced to me that he was going away for some time, and undertook to
to give his news soon. A few days later I received
the following letter:

Mrs,

I left Montreal immediately after Thérèse's funeral,
because I needed the deepest loneliness to cry and
thanks God. Oh! Madam, God is good! My heavenly Therese the
said in the midst of the pains of death, and the same cry escapes
ceaselessly of my torn heart. It's all over for me on earth,
and yet I succumb under the weight of gratitude, because the
light has shone in my darkness and I'm Catholic, yes
Catholic. Ah! blessed be God who gave me _faith_. What
happiness to tell Thérèse, to thank God with her But this
would be too sweet for this poor land, where happiness does not exist
not.

I know that my conversion will be a great consolation to you,
therefore I will speak to you with the utmost confidence. You
Did you know, Madam, my estrangement from Catholicism or rather
you did not know him, because in our relations, I concealed
carefully my prejudices, so as not to distress Thérèse. But when
she told me that she was counting on my conversion, I thought I should not
leave him illusions about it. How she had to pity me and
pray for me!

I will not try to tell you my dismay on hearing the
disease of Thérèse, which I suffered when I found her dying.
Question your heart, Madam. I contained the explosion of my
despair not to disturb her at this terrible hour, but who
could tell what was suffering? All to her and my pain,
I saw nothing, I heard nothing around me; I had nothing
noticed preparations for administration and when the priest
approached with the holy host, - O my God how to speak of this
sacred moment, how to say the miracle that took place in my soul? Without
doubt, Thérèse prayed for me at this solemn hour, and at her
prayer the Lord Jesus deigned to look at me, for in that moment the
the most ardent faith entered, set my soul ablaze. Seized with a respect without
bounds, I bowed down, saying from the bottom of my heart:
Yes, you are Christ, the only begotten Son of the living God ...
mercy! O goodness! O moment forever blessed! O moment really
ineffable and that all the joys of heaven will not make me forget!
Faith, gratitude, love overflowed from my soul. The tears
flowed from my heart. I would have given my life with
transport, to bear witness to the real presence, that of
all the Catholic dogmas which more revolted my superb
reason. The gaze of Christ, like a scorching sun, had melted these
thick ice, dispelled those dark clouds that had prevented me
until then to believe in the word and the love of my God.

I saw my lovely bride dying and dying, but with faith
resignation had entered my soul, and a deep peace mingled with
my inexpressible pain. At the terrible moment, when the priest
pronounced the supreme absolution, I believed that knowledge
came back, and leaning over her, I said: Therese, thank you
God, I am a Catholic. Did she understand me? I believe so, because his
dying gaze revived and turned to me. Ah! as it had to
to rejoice the angels and penetrate to God, this song of joy and
gratitude that arose from her heart, while she was in
the work of death.

How much I thank you, Madam, for this crucifix which would have been
so dear and so precious, and that you had the generosity of me
give. When I looked at him, there, next to the dead Thérèse, it was
as if a bright light bursting from the sacred wounds of the
Christ would have illuminated the mysterious depths of eternity. As
I found her happy to have opened her eyes to these radiant
splendours, to have seen God face to face, to be with him forever!
Didn't you feel consoled looking at her face, her sweet
face, on which the vision of Jesus Christ had left as a
heavenly reflection of happiness and peace? If I could tell you what
I felt during the funeral mass, the gratitude that
consumed my soul, when I thought that on the altar Jesus Christ
immolated herself for my Thérèse! What consolation I found in praying
for her, for her who prayed so much for me!

You may be surprised that I took a little time to tell you
know my change. It was because the priest who had attended
Therese advised me, after hearing me, to deal with it first.
with God. He sent me to this monastery from which I am writing to you. I arrived
on the evening of the Solemnity of the Assumption. The superior received me with
perfect kindness and led me to the chapel, where the religious
were gathered for the office. The image of the Virgin, brilliantly
illuminated, shone above the altar, and this sight moved me
deeply. I remembered that moment when, on his deathbed,
Thérèse, putting her hand on my head, consecrated me to the mother of
mercy. From the bottom of my heart I ratified it
consecration, and promised to the Blessed Virgin to honor him always with
most tender and loving cult. A wonderfully beautiful voice
sang the _Salve Regina_, and that sweet song, awakening in my
heart the sweetest and most heartbreaking emotion, I cried
long time. No, I will never forget tonight (the last of his life)
where Therese sang it to me. Listening to him, a confused feeling of
reverence and trust for the mother of God penetrated for the
first time in my soul, and I was trying to react against this
impression, very sweet though. Do you remember with what accent
she said to me: Francis, my dear friend, don't you want the Saint
Virgo protects us and keeps us? This question troubled me. In
returning home, I thought how little, after all, I could
for her happiness, and a secret instinct led me to put her under
custody of the Virgin Mary.

It was yesterday the day fixed for my wedding, and despite the strength that I
tap into my faith, I succumbed to the weight of the deadliest
sadness. It was a wonderful day. The sun was shining.
All of nature had an air of celebration. And me, I replayed my dreams
of happiness, and my thought stopped in this tomb where everything came
to be swallowed up, in this tomb where I saw her go down to sleep
until _the heavens and the earth were shaken._ It was
horribly painful. But the religious saint who prepares me for
baptism came to join me in the garden where I had retired, and,
tenderly and strongly reproaching my weakness, made me ask
forgiveness to God. Moreover, these failures are rare. The mighty
hand of Christ supports me on an abyss of pain. But you,
Madam, how do you endure this terrible ordeal? Ah,
let me repeat to you what Thérèse said to me: It is the will
of God, and we must submit to it, for he is our Father.

My baptism is set for August 28. It would be superfluous to tell you
how much I want to see you there. You had for Thérèse a heart of
mother, and you could not believe how your affection for her
attaches me to you. Suffer that I thank you for your care though
enlightened, so tender. I appreciated them all the more since I have
suffered greatly from the misfortune of being an orphan. Be blessed, Madam,
for having loved her so much. Be blessed for the bitter tears that you
have poured with me on his coffin. Will I tell you about
the impatience with which I await the day of my regeneration,
the sacred hour of my baptism. That it is long in coming, this day or I
will be washed in the blood of Christ. You know that August 28 is the
feast of Saint Augustine. May it please God that the example of this illustrious
penitent, I cry all my life for my innumerable faults and the
woe to have loved God so late. Pending abjuration
public, every day, in the presence of Jesus Christ and his
angels, I abjure in the secrecy of my heart all the errors of
heresy. Can't you imagine the sweetness that I find to say
and tell Jesus Christ again that I want to belong to his Church, to be
the most humble and submissive child.

In the evening, I take a walk with my manager in the garden of
monastery. We speak of the love and sufferings of Christ, of the
nothingness of human things and of this coming hour when the dead
will hear in their graves the voice of the Son of God. Yes,
I'm waiting for the resurrection of the dead, _ and my tears flow well
sweet when I think that one day I will find my radiant Therese
of eternal youth and immortal beauty.

Sometimes I confess to my shame it seems to me that I can never
endure his absence. I was telling my manager today.
The holy old man smiled softly and answered me with a
heavenly expression: My son, when you have received communion, you will know
that God suffices the soul. These words made my heart beat faster. In
Thinking of my next Communion, I remained moved, dazzled, like a
traveler before whom an enchanted and unknown horizon opens. Ô
Christ my savior, what happens in the soul that loves you when
are you going in? Maybe I should, Madam, speak to you with more
calm, but the mere thought of my first communion plunges me
a kind of rapture. So think about what Jesus Christ did
for me. And yet I have hours of terrible depression, when I
think that my Thérèse is no longer anywhere on earth. O misery and
weakness of man's heart! I cry for her when I know her at
heaven ... But the saint that God gave me for guide tells me not to
alarm me if nature often weakens. In these bitter moments and
deep sadness, he makes me recite the _Te Deum_ for
thank God for what he gave me not only _to believe in
him, but still to suffer for him._ This grace of
suffering and faith, you have also received it, Madam, bless and
thank God with me, until, as Thérèse begged,
he brings us together for eternity in his love.

To my great regret, I was unable to attend Mr. Douglas' baptism,
but, in my answer to his letter, I informed him that Thérèse had
offered his happiness and his life to God to obtain his conversion. After
his baptism, Francis returned to Montreal and spent some time
me. His first visit had been to his fiancée's grave. I the
relive with heartbreaking happiness. He made me take a seat on the sofa
where he had so often chatted with Thérèse, and when he could speak, he
spoke to me about God and her. Always generous, he strove,
so as not to add to my pain, to hide from me the excess of his pain,
and left above all the joys of his conversion, but his pain
burst out in spite of himself, with accents that tore the heart. And
yet, with what delight he spoke of his baptism and
First Communion! Ah! if Thérèse had been there to see him and
hear it! This young man filled with graces so great inspired me
a kind of reverence. I couldn't take my eyes off her beautiful
blond head, on which the baptismal water had just flowed. He had
much thinner and paler during these two weeks, but the joy
deepness of the convert could be read in his eyes tired with tears.
I never understood the power of faith like looking at him
and listening to him. When this heart so cruelly torn burst in
transports of thanksgiving, I remembered the martyrs who
sang in tortures.

Every day he shut himself up in Thérèse's room, and passed
there for hours. Nothing had changed. The little table that
had served as an altar was still there with its candles and flowers.
The bouquet of roses, the last gift of her fiancé, was still in front
the image of the Virgin in which Therese had placed it. Alas! these poor
flowers were not yet withered when death had it
struck.

The first time Francis walked into this room for him though
full of memories, he kissed the table where the holy sacrament had
rested, and then wanted to kneel down where he had seen her die,
but he felt ill and was obliged to go out. I wanted to prevent it
to go back, fearing for him these painful emotions, but
he reassured me. Don't be afraid, he said to me, God has come between
pain and me. Besides, this room where she lived, where she is
dead, this room where I received the faith is for me a sanctuary
sacred. Seeing that he spent most of his time there, I
put the most resembling of the portraits of Thérèse. He thanked me for
this attention with touching effusion, and then tells me that he
carried her continually in a much otherwise intimate presence
than that of the senses.

Often, he spoke to me of our immortal hopes, and spoke
with a conviction so ardent, so Profound, that listening to it, I felt
wondered if I had any faith. His presence did me good
infinite. It was impossible not to revive in contact with this
burning fervor. Every day we would visit the cemetery of
the Côte des Neiges. I placed the flowers on Thérèse's grave
that we had brought. Francis threw his hat on the earth,
knelt down and put his arm around the cross. I the
watched praying with inexpressible consolation. How God
could he not have listened to this soul, all radiant with the purity of his
baptism? How could he not have heard the voices of these
tears_ so holy resigned? It was in the cemetery, standing
near the grave of Therese, that Mr. Douglas confided to me his resolution
to enter a monastery, after having made the pilgrimage of the
Holy Land. He liked to talk about religious life, happiness and
of the glory of being all to God, and then his face took on a
expression that uplifted the soul. Looking at him I surprised myself
dreaming of these dreadful joys of renunciation and sacrifice, he
is true, to human weakness, but so incomparably above
of all the others.

The day of departure came and the last farewell, then, for him, the
last visit to the cemetery.

It was a sad cold autumn day, and alone at my home
forever sorry, I thought of my Thérèse who slept under the
land, and to the noble young man who was going to wait in peace
deep of the cloister the deeper peace of death.

After Mr. Douglas left, I found in Thérèse's diary
the following lines that were added to it. They were written in
English and almost erased by her tears:

"O my God, unite us for eternity in your love!

"This supreme wish of his soul, I had it engraved on his crucifix that
I wear on my chest, on the ring that I gave her like to
my wife and that he carries among the dead, but he is more
indelibly engraved in my heart.

"O my God, be blessed! _I am happy with you_; in the
mourning so intimate, so deep in my soul, I like to repeat what she
made me say in the days of happiness. Everything is over, forever over ...
but _my heart sang its joy. The roads are open to me
real life. Through the bowels of the mercy of God, who
wanted this rising sun to come from above to visit us, to enlighten
those who are buried in the shadow of death. These words,
the Church sang them at the tomb of Thérèse, and this mother
immortal will also sing them on my coffin. Ah! I would like a
the same tomb brings us together one day. But no, we must go and die
where the voice of God calls me. We must leave and not to return
never. What binds us so strongly to where we loved
and suffered?

"Thérèse, every day of my life, I would have liked to cry over this
land that covers you. It is next to you that I would like to sleep my
last sleep, and wake up at the hour of resurrection. But
you have to obey God. We must go. Tomorrow I will have left for
still this land of Canada, where we loved each other, where your
body rests; but I carry with the pain which purifies the faith which
save and console, and, from the forever blessed hour of my baptism,
there is in my soul the voice which cries unceasingly to God My father! my
dad!

"O holy Catholic Church! O sacred bride of Christ! O my tender
and glorious mother! You made me the child of God. Fed in the
hate and contempt of your name, I ignored you, I you
insulted; but now I belong to you and I no longer aspire
than to die in your arms.

"My God, be my dream, my love. I'm going to wait for the
shadows decline and the day dawns. "



IV


After his departure, Mr. Douglas wrote to me often, and told me every
times he couldn't get used to the happiness of being a Catholic. To his
Returning from the Orient, he entered the Grande Chartreuse, from where he wrote to me
one last time.

Here is his letter:

Mrs,

You haven't forgotten our conversations from last fall, what
I confided to you on my resolution to enter a cloister. This
resolution, I renewed it everywhere: in Lourdes, Lorette, Rome,
in Bethlehem, on Calvary, and I have finally just performed it. Since
one week I am at the Grande Chartreuse, where, with the grace of
God, I want to end my life. My happiness is great. We breathe here a
atmosphere of peace that penetrates the soul and seems to draw closer to the sky. I
had no idea of ​​this calm, of this silence more eloquent than that
tombs. You cannot imagine what one feels in
entering this monastery, where, for nearly eight centuries, so many
men who could be tall according to the world, came
to bury themselves in order to live there poor and obscure under the sole gaze of
God.

You know that the Charterhouse is built in a deep solitude,
midst of almost inaccessible rocks. This grandiose nature elevates
soul and reminded me of the wild beauty of certain landscapes in your
Canada. I won't tell you anything about the history of this famous monastery
(where your thoughts, I hope, will often come to visit me), because, without
doubt, you have known him for a long time. I confess that I was
very moved when arriving here. I thought of those who came before me, of
those braves of yesteryear, to so many noble and brilliant lords who
fled the pomp and seductions of the world, to come to the
Chartreuse operate their salvation. This savage solitude has seen many
heroic, bloody sacrifices, and what terrible struggles between
nature and grace must have happened there! For me, I came without
fight, because, since the death of my fiancée, the world is no longer to me
nothing.

The recollection of religious touched me deeply. Yes, Louis
Veuillot was right when he said: We must leave
monasteries, not for the great culprits and the great sorrows,
as it is commonly said, _but for the great virtues and
great joys_.

I intended to begin my novitiate on the day of my entry, but the
good fathers gave me a week of rest to recover from my
travel fatigue, and the religious responsible for exercising hospitality
deals with all kinds of care and attention. It spoils me. I do not
don't make any hint here, madam, I'm not blaming you
indirect for having once, at your place, spoiled me with so much good
thanks that this amiable religious.

In the meantime, I occupy one of the rooms intended for foreigners.
This room, all monastic, has for ornament only a painting
representing Saint Bruno in prayer; below are engraved the
coat of arms of the Carthusians - a globe surmounted by a cross and this beautiful
motto: _Stat crux dum volvitur orbis; _ the cross remains for
let the world turn. I love this deep word.

Now I'll tell you about one thing that has been good to me
annoying.

Yesterday, Father Superior came to see me in my room. I opened my
trunks to show him several of my travel memories that I
believed to be of interest to him. The Reverend Father probably found
that there were many unnecessary things there, because he told me that before
to start my novitiate, I would have to hand over everything I had
brought with me. This order upset me. Since the death of Thérèse,
I had always carried with me her crucifix, and her portrait that she
gave me on our engagement day, with a curl of her
hair. To part with these memories so dear seemed to me a
sacrifice beyond my strength. What! I said to myself, I myself
separate from all I have left of her! of his portrait, of his
hair, of the crucifix that she wore so long, that she held
in his hands at his last hour! in front of which she offered
for my salvation his happiness and his life! I spent the night in a
cruel agitation. Finally this morning, deeply unhappy, I went to
the room of the Father Superior. My confusion did not escape his
penetrating gaze; because, after offering me a seat, he asked me
which grieved me and prompted me to speak to him "like a child speaks
to his father. "I was greatly embarrassed, but I looked at him and my
shyness giving way to trust and the deepest respect, I
knelt before him and told him everything. I tell him like his
words of the day before had made me suffer, why my fiancée
had offered his life to God; I told him about his death, my conversion,
and asked permission to keep what was left of her: her
crucifix, his portrait and his hair.

The good Father is visibly moved by listening to me, and says to me afterwards
a few moments of silence:

- My son, always keep in the bottom of your heart the memory of this
angel that God had put in your path to lead you to him. This
that she has done for you is the heroism of charity. As for these
objects which are so rightly dear to you, you have here the opportunity to
sacrifice.

And as I didn't answer, the venerable religious put his hands
on my head and said to me with an accent that penetrated to the most intimate
of my soul:

--My child, why did you come here? Why do you want to be
religious?

I was very disturbed, but I told him:

- Father, order me what you want, I will obey you
all things; only, please, leave me what
rest of her. These memories are sacred to me, I had them on
my heart on the day of my baptism and my first communion.
Let me keep them still, at least for a while.

`` No, '' he replied gently, `` but also with an authority that
did not suffer from instances, no, my child. The sacrifice is the
basis of religious life. If you want to start your novitiate,
you must give me these objects, which you hold so dear.

A very painful struggle took place in my soul. I confess to you
my confusion, for a few moments I hesitated - yes, I hesitated. Ô
my God, have mercy on me! O my Therese, pray for me, I say to the
bottom of my heart; and, removing from my breast the crucifix and the
medallion, I gave them to the Father, who looked at me in silence. In me
separating from all that was left of her, I felt something
of that terrible pain that broke my heart when I put it on
in his coffin. I was crying. But far from being indignant at my
weakness, the holy religious drew me into his arms, and told me to
sweet and tender words.

“Don't cry,” he repeated to me, “don't cry, my child. All
to sacrifice to God is the greatest of graces, the greatest of
happiness. Later you will find out and you will regret those tears.
Believe me, he added with a charming expression, your angel
keeper, and that other angel that God gave you, rejoice
for you right now.

He spoke to me of the great graces that God has given me, of my baptism,
of my first communion.

Ah! Madam, if you had heard him when he begged me to be
faithful, to be grateful, to be generous! There is in his word
something that penetrates and inflames the heart. I was ashamed of
me, I assure you, thinking that I had just hesitated miserably
before a sacrifice; but the good Father did not reproach me. At
on the contrary, he consented to let me begin my novitiate; and me
hugging, as if to make the fire pass through my heart
sacred that burns his, he wished me the happiness of loving God
until the continual, absolute renunciation, until the perfect immolation
and constant of myself. This wish made me feel an emotion
deep. It seemed to me that I had never heard anything so
sweet, not so terrible. I thanked the holy old man, and he
confessed that I was only a false brave, that the words of renunciation
and immolation made me shudder. He listened to me with a kind
indulgence, and smiles upon hearing me talk about my fears, like
we do when children tell us about their fears
imaginary. That smile, I assure you, said more than
any word, about this madness that makes us fear
suffer for God. Then, as I was about to greet him to retire,
the Reverend Father said to me pleasantly:

"But I should scold you for delaying telling me everything."

I kissed her hands, and assured her that I would be the most confident
of his religious, as I was perhaps already the one who loved him
more. This made him smile, and he replied kindly:

- My child, the old monk loves you too.

Father Superior must send you in my letter the portrait and the
Thérèse's hair. By receiving them, you might have believed that
his memory was less dear to me, less sacred, and this thought, I
know, you would be very painful. That's why I told you everything
on this first and very sensitive test of my religious life. And
then, I liked to let you know my Superior, to repeat to you
what he told me about her. I am sure you will share the
the consolation I felt on hearing it. Isn't it very good? he
seems to me that I become a child again when I speak to him.

Tonight I will take possession of my cell and start my
novitiate. The world attributes this resolution to too much of my
regrets. He is wrong. Therese was an angel and I loved her with
all the strength and tenderness of my heart, but if I could
bring back to life, I would not. No, God is my witness,
Madam, I would leave her adorned with her virginal purity to the Lord
Jesus, to the One who loved her the most.

When, last summer, I was preparing for my wedding, who would have told me
that a few months later I would be at the Grande Chartreuse,
aspiring only to this stripping of the soul which leaves nothing to
sacrifice?

"O My God, you have broken my ties and I will give you a
sacrifice of praise. "

I often think of the joy that Thérèse must have in my vocation
religious. The dear child only wanted faith for me. But,
as Saint Paul says, God can do infinitely more than we
want. I never read these words without being moved, without thinking
to the recognition that Therese and I owe ourselves to God. Ah, that he
is good, madam. After giving me faith, he calls me to happiness
and to the glory of belonging to him.

No doubt religious life is austere, but the charity of
Jesus Christ urges us_, and the enchantment of living under the same
roof that this amiable Savior passes lightly over many
things. Besides, I ask you, what human happiness can be
compare to that of the religious, when he prostrates himself on the pavement of
sanctuary, after the solemn vows which unite him to God for
always? In the world, the mere thought of death darkens all
joys, disturbs all tenderness. Here, not only this
thought is without bitterness, but death itself has an air of celebration. And
how to be surprised? The religious expects nothing from the figure of
this passing world_, he _ threw his heart into eternity_, and
lives on faith and hope. Also, on the edge of the tomb, the
faith, which will disappear before clear sight; hope, which will be
lose in possession, shine with a final and brighter glow
in his soul, and shine through the shadows and
sorrows of death, like the sun setting in the clouds. Yes
this image seems a little pompous to you, please consider that
I have there in front of me, writing to you, a magnificent sunset
Sun.

Madam, I will now bid you farewell. If I persevere like it
Hopefully, I won't write to you again and we won't see each other again
never on earth. But don't be upset. _The heart in
haut_, and thank God for me. Goodbye to eternity, home
our father.

You remember that, on her deathbed, Thérèse was protesting
that she would love me more in heaven than on earth, and me, in presence
guardian angels of this monastery, I promise you that all
days of my life I will thank God for having known and having
loved. I won't visit his grave again, I will never speak again
of her; the white dress of the Carthusians will replace my
mourning, but my affection for her will live on forever.

Pray for me, I will never forget you, and from my cell I
ask Jesus Christ to put his hand on the deep
wound of your heart, his divine hand, which for the love of us was
attached to the cross.

Goodbye, one last time.

Allow me to end with a word from Saint Augustine, the
first that I read on the walls of the Chartreuse: O love! Ô
die to oneself! O reach God!

The portrait and the hair of Therese were attached to the letter. Mr.
Douglas no longer wrote to me, but my thoughts followed him with respect and
tenderness in the exercises of his religious life, so noble and
so holy. I pictured him praying in his chaste and poor
cell. I knew the lovely and sacred memory of my daughter
darling lived in his heart, that every day, following his word,
he thanked God for having loved her, and that thought was
singularly sweet.

Francis Douglas had always lived in opulence; he had to suffer
much of the austerity of the Charterhouse. Yet he pronounced his
wishes. Shortly afterwards struck with a fatal illness, he saw
died with deep peace. One of the religious asked him if he
did not feel any fear, he smiled and replied: That
would I fear? I will fall into the arms of the one I have the most
love.

He begged his superior to write to me to inform me of his death.

Without ceasing, he blessed God with the gift of faith.

After his last communion, Francis wanted to hear the _Salve
Regina_ and breathed out slowly as it was sung. He liked
this song, said the religious his brothers, and never heard it
without visibly softening.