Excellent Readings: Sonnet CXI by William Shakespeare (in English)

O! for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
That did not better for my life provide
Than public means which public manners breeds.
Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
And almost thence my nature is subdued
To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:
Pity me, then, and wish I were renewed;
Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink
Potions of eisel 'gainst my strong infection;
No bitterness that I will bitter think,
Nor double penance, to correct correction.
   Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye,
   Even that your pity is enough to cure me.

Tuesday's Serial: "St. Martin’s Summer" by Rafael Sabatini (in English) - III.

 

CHAPTER III. THE DOWAGER’S COMPLIANCE

Promptly at noon on the morrow Monsieur de Garnache presented himself once more at the Seneschal’s palace, and with him went Rabecque, his body-servant, a lean, swarthy, sharp-faced man, a trifle younger than his master.

Anselme, the obese master of the household, received them with profound respect, and at once conducted Garnache to Monsieur de Tressan’s presence.

On the stairs they met Captain d’Aubran, who was descending. The captain was not in the best of humours. For four-and-twenty hours he had kept two hundred of his men under arms, ready to march as soon as he should receive his orders from the Lord Seneschal, yet those instructions were not forthcoming. He had been to seek them again that morning, only to be again put off.

Monsieur de Garnache had considerable doubt, born of his yesterday’s interview with the Seneschal, that Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye would be delivered into his charge as he had stipulated. His relief was, therefore, considerable, upon being ushered into Tressan’s presence, to find a lady in cloak and hat, dressed as for a journey, seated in a chair by the great fireplace.

Tressan advanced to meet him, a smile of cordial welcome on his lips, and they bowed to each other in formal greeting.

“You see, monsieur,” said the Seneschal, waving a plump hand in the direction of the lady, “that you have been obeyed. Here is your charge.”

Then to the lady: “This is Monsieur de Garnache,” he announced, “of whom I have already told you, who is to conduct you to Paris by order of Her Majesty.

“And now, my good friends, however great the pleasure I derive from your company, I care not how soon you set out, for I have some prodigious arrears of work upon my hands.”

Garnache bowed to the lady, who returned his greeting by an inclination of the head, and his keen eyes played briskly over her. She was a plump-faced, insipid child, with fair hair and pale blue eyes, stolid and bovine in their expressionlessness.

“I am quite ready, monsieur,” said she, rising as she spoke, and gathering her cloak about her; and Garnache remarked that her voice had the southern drawl, her words the faintest suggestion of a patois. It was amazing how a lady born and bred could degenerate in the rusticity of Dauphiny. Pigs and cows, he made no doubt, had been her chief objectives. Yet, even so, he thought he might have expected that she would have had more to say to him than just those five words expressing her readiness to depart. He had looked for some acknowledgment of satisfaction at his presence, some utterances of gratitude either to himself or to the Queen-Regent for the promptness with which she had been succoured. He was disappointed, but he showed nothing of it, as with a simple inclination of the head—

“Good!” said he. “Since you are ready and Monsieur le Seneschal is anxious to be rid of us, let us by all means be moving. You have a long and tedious journey before you, mademoiselle.”

“I—I am prepared for that,” she faltered.

He stood aside, and bending from the waist he made a sweeping gesture towards the door with the hand that held his hat. To the invitation to precede him she readily responded, and, with a bow to the Seneschal, she began to walk across the apartment.

Garnache’s eyes, narrowing slightly, followed her, like points of steel. Suddenly he shot a disturbing glance at Tressan’s face, and the corner of his wild-cat mustachios twitched. He stood erect, and called her very sharply.

“Mademoiselle!”

She stopped, and turned to face him, an incredible shyness seeming to cause her to avoid his gaze.

“You have, no doubt, Monsieur le Seneschal’s word for my identity. But I think it is as well that you should satisfy yourself. Before placing yourself entirely in my care, as you are about to do, you would be well advised to assure yourself, that I am indeed Her Majesty’s emissary. Will you be good enough to glance at this?”

He drew forth as he spoke the letter in the queen’s own hand, turned it upside down, and so presented it to her. The Seneschal looked on stolidly, a few paces distant.

“But certainly, mademoiselle, assure yourself that this gentleman is no other than I have told you.”

Thus enjoined, she took the letter; for a second her eyes met Garnache’s glittering gaze, and she shivered. Then she bent her glance to the writing, and studied it a moment, what time the man from Paris watched her closely.

Presently she handed it back to him.

“Thank you, monsieur,” was all she said.

“You are satisfied that it is in order, mademoiselle?” he inquired, and a note of mockery too subtle for her or the Seneschal ran through his question.

“I am quite satisfied.”

Garnache turned to Tressan. His eyes were smiling, but unpleasantly, and in his voice when he spoke there was something akin to the distant rumble that heralds an approaching storm.

“Mademoiselle,” said he, “has received an eccentric education.”

“Eh?” quoth Tressan, perplexed.

“I have heard tell, monsieur, of a people somewhere in the East who read and write from right to left; but never yet have I heard tell of any—particularly in France—so oddly schooled as to do their reading upside down.”

Tressan caught the drift of the other’s meaning. He paled a little, and sucked his lip, his eyes wandering to the girl, who stood in stolid inapprehension of what was being said.

“Did she do that?” said he, and he scarcely knew what he was saying; all that he realized was that it urged him to explain this thing. “Mademoiselle’s education has been neglected—a by no means uncommon happening in these parts. She is sensitive of it; she seeks to hide the fact.”

Then the storm broke about their heads. And it crashed and thundered awfully in the next few minutes.

“O liar! O damned, audacious liar,” roared Garnache uncompromisingly, advancing a step upon the Seneschal, and shaking the parchment threateningly in his very face, as though it were become a weapon of offence. “Was it to hide the fact that she had not been taught to write that she sent the Queen a letter pages-long? Who is this woman?” And the finger he pointed at the girl quivered with the rage that filled him at this trick they had thought to put upon him.

Tressan sought refuge in offended dignity. He drew himself up, threw back his head, and looked the Parisian fiercely in the eye.

“Since you take this tone with me, monsieur—”

“I take with you—as with any man—the tone that to me seems best. You miserable fool! As sure as you’re a rogue this affair shall cost you your position. You have waxed fat and sleek in your seneschalship; this easy life in Dauphiny appears to have been well suited to your health. But as your paunch has grown, so, of a truth, have your brains dwindled, else had you never thought to cheat me quite so easily.

“Am I some lout who has spent his days herding swine, think you, that you could trick me into believing this creature to be Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye—this creature with the mien of a peasant, with a breath reeking of garlic like a third-rate eating-house, and the walk of a woman who has never known footgear until this moment? Tell me, sir, for what manner of fool did you take me?”

The Seneschal stood with blanched face and gaping mouth, his fire all turned to ashes before the passion of this gaunt man.

Garnache paid no heed to him. He stepped to the girl, and roughly raised her chin with his hand so that she was forced to look him in the face.

“What is your name, wench?” he asked her.

“Margot,” she blubbered, bursting into tears.

He dropped her chin, and turned away with a gesture of disgust.

“Get you gone,” he bade her harshly. “Get you back to the kitchen or the onion-field from which they took you.”

And the girl, scarce believing her good fortune, departed with a speed that bordered on the ludicrous. Tressan had naught to say, no word to stay her with; pretence, he realized, was vain.

“Now, my Lord Seneschal,” quoth Garnache, arms akimbo, feet planted wide, and eyes upon the wretched man’s countenance, “what may you have to say to me?”

Tressan shifted his position; he avoided the other’s glance; he was visibly trembling, and when presently he spoke it was in faltering accents.

“It—it—seems, monsieur, that—ah—that I have been the victim of some imposture.”

“It had rather seemed to me that the victim chosen was myself.”

“Clearly we were both victims,” the Seneschal rejoined. Then he proceeded to explain. “I went to Condillac yesterday as you desired me, and after a stormy interview with the Marquise I obtained from her—as I believed—the person of Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye. You see I was not myself acquainted with the lady.”

Garnache looked at him. He did not believe him. He regretted almost that he had not further questioned the girl. But, after all, perhaps it might be easier and more expedient if he were to appear to accept the Seneschal’s statement. But he must provide against further fraud.

“Monsieur le Seneschal,” said he in calmer tones, putting his anger from him, “at the best you are a blunderer and an ass, at the worst a traitor. I will inquire no further at present; I’ll not seek to discriminate too finely.”

“Monsieur, these insults—” began the Seneschal, summoning dignity to his aid. But Garnache broke in:

“La, la! I speak in the Queen’s name. If you have thought to aid the Dowager of Condillac in this resistance of Her Majesty’s mandate, let me enjoin you, as you value your seneschalship—as you value your very neck—to harbour that thought no longer.

“It seems that, after all, I must deal myself with the situation. I must go myself to Condillac. If they should resist me, I shall look to you for the necessary means to overcome that resistance.

“And bear you this in mind: I have chosen to leave it an open question whether you were a party to the trick it has been sought to put upon the Queen, through me, her representative. But it is a question that I have it in my power to resolve at any moment—to resolve as I choose. Unless, monsieur, I find you hereafter—as I trust—actuated by the most unswerving loyalty, I shall resolve that question by proclaiming you a traitor; and as a traitor I shall arrest you and carry you to Paris. Monsieur le Seneschal, I have the honour to give you good-day!”

When he was gone, Monsieur de Tressan flung off his wig, and mopped the perspiration from his brow. He went white as snow and red as fire by turns, as he paced the apartment in a frenzy. Never in the fifteen years that were sped since he had been raised to the governorship of the province had any man taken such a tone with him and harangued him in such terms.

A liar and a traitor had he been called that morning, a knave and a fool; he had been browbeaten and threatened; and he had swallowed it all, and almost turned to lick the hand that administered the dose. Dame! What manner of cur was he become? And the man who had done all this—a vulgar upstart out of Paris, reeking of leather and the barrack-room still lived!

Bloodshed was in his mind; murder beckoned him alluringly to take her as his ally. But he put the thought from him, frenzied though he might be. He must fight this knave with other weapons; frustrate his mission, and send him back to Paris and the Queen’s scorn, beaten and empty-handed.

“Babylas!” he shouted.

Immediately the secretary appeared.

“Have you given thought to the matter of Captain d’Aubran?” he asked, his voice an impatient snarl.

“Yes, monsieur, I have pondered it all morning.”

“Well? And what have you concluded?”

“Helas! monsieur, nothing.”

Tressan smote the table before him a blow that shook some of the dust out of the papers that cumbered it. “Ventregris! How am I served? For what do I pay you, and feed you, and house you, good-for-naught, if you are to fail me whenever I need the things you call your brains? Have you no intelligence, no thought, no imagination? Can you invent no plausible business, no likely rising, no possible disturbances that shall justify my sending Aubran and his men to Montelimar—to the very devil, if need be.”

The secretary trembled in his every limb; his eyes shunned his master’s as his master’s had shunned Garnache’s awhile ago. The Seneschal was enjoying himself. If he had been bullied and browbeaten, here, at least, was one upon whom he, in his turn, might taste the joys of bullying and browbeating.

“You lazy, miserable calf,” he stormed, “I might be better served by a wooden image. Go! It seems I must rely upon myself. It is always so. Wait!” he thundered; for the secretary, only too glad to obey his last order, had already reached the door. “Tell Anselme to bid the Captain attend me here at once.”

Babylas’s bowed and went his errand.

A certain amount of his ill-humour vented, Tressan made an effort to regain his self-control. He passed his handkerchief for the last time over face and head, and resumed his wig.

When d’Aubran entered, the Seneschal was composed and in his wonted habit of ponderous dignity. “Ah, d’Aubran,” said he, “your men are ready?”

“They have been ready these four-and-twenty hours, monsieur.”

“Good. You are a brisk soldier, d’Aubran. You are a man to be relied upon.”

D’Aubran bowed. He was a tall, active young fellow with a pleasant face and a pair of fine black eyes.

“Monsieur le Seneschal is very good.”

With a wave of the hand the Seneschal belittled his own goodness.

“You will march out of Grenoble within the hour, Captain, and you will lead your men to Montelimar. There you will quarter them, and await my further orders. Babylas will give you a letter to the authorities, charging them to find you suitable quarters. While there, d’Aubran, and until my further orders reach you, you will employ your time in probing the feeling in the hill district. You understand?”

“Imperfectly,” d’Aubran confessed.

“You will understand better when you have been in Montelimar a week or so. It may, of course, be a false alarm. Still, we must safeguard the King’s interests and be prepared. Perhaps we may afterwards be charged with starting at shadows; but it is better to be on the alert from the moment the shadow is perceived than to wait until the substance itself has overwhelmed us.”

It sounded so very much as if the Seneschal’s words really had some hidden meaning, that d’Aubran, if not content with going upon an errand of which he knew so little, was, at least, reconciled to obey the orders he received. He uttered words that conveyed some such idea to Tressan’s mind, and within a half-hour he was marching out of Grenoble with beating drums, on his two days’ journey to Montelimar.

 

 

CHAPTER IV. THE CHATEAU DE CONDILLAC

As Captain d’Aubran and his troop were speeding westwards from Grenoble, Monsieur de Garnache, ever attended by his man, rode briskly in the opposite direction, towards the grey towers of Condillac, that reared themselves towards the greyer sky above the valley of the Isere. It was a chill, dull, autumnal day, with a raw wind blowing from the Alps; its breath was damp, and foretold of the rain that was likely to come anon, the rain with which the clouds hanging low about the distant hills were pregnant.

But Monsieur de Garnache was totally insensible to his surroundings; his mind was very busy with the interview from which he had come, and the interview to which he was speeding. Once he permitted himself a digression, that he might point a moral for the benefit of his servant.

“You see, Rebecque, what a plague it is to have to do with women. Are you sufficiently grateful to me for having quelled your matrimonial ardour of two months ago? No, you are not. Grateful you may be; sufficiently grateful, never; it would be impossible. No gratitude could be commensurate with the benefit I conferred upon you. Yet if you had married, and discovered for yourself the troubles that come from too close an association with that sex which some wag of old ironically called the weaker, and of which contemporary fools with no sense of irony continue so to speak in good faith, you could have blamed only yourself. You would have shrugged your shoulders and made the best of it, realizing that no other man had put this wrong upon you. But with me—thousand devils!—it is very different. I am a man who, in one particular at least, has chosen his way of life with care; I have seen to it that I should walk a road unencumbered by any petticoat. What happens? What comes of all my careful plans?

“Fate sends an infernal cut-throat to murder our good king—whose soul God rest eternally! And since his son is of an age too tender to wield the sceptre, the boy’s mother does it in his name. Thus, I, a soldier, being subject to the head of the State, find myself, by no devising of my own, subject to a woman.

“In itself that is bad enough. Too bad, indeed—Ventregris!—too bad. Yet Fate is not content. It must occur to this woman to select me—me of all men—to journey into Dauphiny, and release another woman from the clutches of yet a third. And to what shifts are we not put, to what discomforts not subjected? You know them, Rabecque, for you have shared them with me. But it begins to break upon my mind that what we have endured may be as nothing to what may lie before us. It is an ill thing to have to do with women. Yet you, Rabecque, would have deserted me for one of them!”

Rabecque was silent. Maybe he was ashamed of himself; or maybe that, not agreeing with his master, he had yet sufficient appreciation of his position to be discreetly silent where his opinions might be at variance. Thus Garnache was encouraged to continue.

“And what is all this trouble about, which they have sent me to set right? About a marriage. There is a girl wants to marry one man, and a woman who wants to marry her to another. Ponder the possibilities of tragedy in such a situation. Half this world’s upheavals have had their source in less. Yet you, Rabecque, would have married!”

Necessity at last turned his discourse to other matters.

“Tell me, now,” said he abruptly, in a different tone, “is there hereabouts a ford?”

“There is a bridge up yonder, monsieur,” returned the servant, thankful to have the conversation changed.

They rode towards it in silence, Garnache’s eyes set now upon the grey pile that crowned the hillock, a half-mile away, on the opposite bank of the stream. They crossed the bridge and rode up the gently rising, bare, and rugged ground towards Condillac. The place wore an entirely peaceful air, strong and massive though it appeared. It was encircled by a ditch, but the drawbridge was down, and the rust on its chains argued that long had it been so.

None coming to challenge them, the pair rode across the planks, and the dull thud of their hooves started into activity some one in the gatehouse.

A fellow rudely clad—a hybrid between man-at-arms and lackey—lounged on a musket to confront them in the gateway. Monsieur de Garnache announced his name, adding that he came to crave an audience of Madame la Marquise, and the man stood aside to admit him. Thus he and Rabecque rode forward into the roughly paved courtyard.

From several doorways other men emerged, some of martial bearing, showing that the place was garrisoned to some extent. Garnache took little heed of them. He flung his reins to the man whom he had first addressed—the fellow had kept pace beside him—and leapt nimbly to the ground, bidding Rabecque await him there.

The soldier lackey resigned the reins to Rabecque, and requested Monsieur de Garnache to follow him. He led the way through a door on the left, down a passage and across an anteroom, and ushered the visitor finally into a spacious, gloomy hall, panelled in black oak and lighted as much by the piled-up fire that flared on the noble hearth as by the grey daylight that filtered through the tall mullioned windows.

As they entered, a liver-coloured hound that lay stretched before the fire growled lazily, and showed the whites of his eyes. Paying little attention to the dog, Garnache looked about him. The apartment was handsome beyond praise, in a sombre, noble fashion. It was hung with pictures of departed Condillacs—some of them rudely wrought enough—with trophies of ancient armour, and with implements of the chase. In the centre stood an oblong table of black oak, very richly carved about its massive legs, and in a china bowl, on this, an armful of late roses filled the room with their sweet fragrance.

Then Garnache espied a page on the window-seat, industriously burnishing a cuirass. He pursued his task, indifferent to the newcomer’s advent, until the knave who had conducted thither the Parisian called the boy and bade him go tell the Marquise that a Monsieur de Garnache, with a message from the Queen-Regent, begged an audience.

The boy rose, and simultaneously, out of a great chair by the hearth, whose tall back had hitherto concealed him, there rose another figure. This was a stripling of some twenty summers—twenty-one, in fact—of a pale, beautifully featured face, black hair and fine black eyes, and very sumptuously clad in a suit of shimmering silk whose colour shifted from green to purple as he moved.

Monsieur de Garnache assumed that he was in the presence of Marius de Condillac. He bowed a trifle stiffly, and was surprised to have his bow returned with a graciousness that amounted almost to cordiality.

“You are from Paris, monsieur?” said the young man, in a gentle, pleasant voice. “I fear you have had indifferent weather for your journey.”

Garnache thought of other things besides the weather that he had found indifferent, and he felt warmed almost to the point of anger at the very recollection. But he bowed again, and answered amiably enough.

The young man offered him a seat, assuring him that his mother would not keep him waiting long. The page had already gone upon his errand.

Garnache took the proffered chair, and sank down with creak and jingle to warm himself at the fire.

“From what you have said, I gather that you are Monsieur Marius de Condillac,” said he. “I, as you may have heard me announced by your servant, am Martin Marie Rigobert de Garnache—at your service.”

“We have heard of you, Monsieur de Garnache,” said the youth as he crossed his shapely legs of silken violet, and fingered the great pearl that depended from his ear. “But we had thought that by now you would be on your way to Paris.”

“No doubt—with Margot,” was the grim rejoinder.

But Marius either gathered no suggestion from its grimness, or did not know the name Garnache uttered, for he continued:

“We understood that you were to escort Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye to Paris, to place her under the tutelage of the Queen-Regent. I will not conceal from you that we were chagrined at the reflection cast upon Condillac; nevertheless, Her Majesty’s word is law in Dauphiny as much as it is in Paris.”

“Quite as much, and I am relieved to hear you confess it,” said Garnache drily, and he scanned more closely the face of this young man. He found cause to modify the excellent impression he had received at first. Marius’s eyebrows were finely pencilled, but they arched a shade too much, and his eyes were set a trifle too closely; the mouth, which had seemed beautiful at first, looked, in addition, on this closer inspection, weak, sensual, and cruel.

There fell upon the momentary silence the sound of an opening door, and both men rose simultaneously to their feet.

In the splendid woman that entered, Monsieur de Garnache saw a wonderful likeness to the boy who stood beside him. She received the emissary very graciously. Marius set a chair for her between the two they had been occupying, and thus interchanging phrases of agreeable greeting the three sat down about the hearth with every show of the greatest amity.

A younger man might have been put out of countenance; the woman’s surpassing beauty, her charm of manner, her melodious voice, falling on the ear soft and gentle as a caress, might have turned a man of less firmness a little from his purpose, a little perhaps from his loyalty and the duty that had brought him all the way from Paris. But Monsieur de Garnache was to her thousand graces as insensible as a man of stone. And he came to business briskly. He had no mind to spend the day at her fireside in pleasant, meaningless talk.

“Madame,” said he, “monsieur your son informs me that you have heard of me and of the business that brings me into Dauphiny. I had not looked for the honour of journeying quite so far as Condillac; but since Monsieur de Tressan, whom I made my ambassador, appears to have failed so signally, I am constrained to inflict my presence upon you.”

“Inflict?” quoth she, with a pretty look of make-believe dismay. “How harsh a word, monsieur!”

The smoothness of the implied compliment annoyed him.

“I will use any word you think more adequate, madame, if you will suggest it,” he answered tartly.

“There are a dozen I might suggest that would better fit the case—and with more justice to yourself,” she answered, with a smile that revealed a gleam of white teeth behind her scarlet lips. “Marcus, bid Benoit bring wine. Monsieur de Garnache will no doubt be thirsting after his ride.”

Garnache said nothing. Acknowledge the courtesy he would not; refuse it he could not. So he sat, and waited for her to speak, his eyes upon the fire.

Madame had already set herself a course. Keener witted than her son, she had readily understood, upon Garnache’s being announced to her, that his visit meant the failure of the imposture by which she had sought to be rid of him.

“I think, monsieur,” she said presently, watching him from under her lids, “that we have, all of us who are concerned in Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye’s affairs, been at cross-purposes. She is an impetuous, impulsive child, and it happened that some little time ago we had words—such things will happen in the most united families. Whilst the heat of her foolish anger was upon her, she wrote a letter to the Queen, in which she desired to be removed from my tutelage. Since then, monsieur, she has come to repent her of it. You, who no doubt understand a woman’s mind—”

“Set out upon no such presumption, madame,” he interrupted. “I know as little of a woman’s mind as any man who thinks he knows a deal—and that is nothing.”

She laughed as at an excellent jest, and Marius, overhearing Garnache’s retort as he was returning to resume his seat, joined in her laugh.

“Paris is a fine whetstone for a man’s wits,” said he.

Garnache shrugged his shoulders.

“I take it, madame, that you wish me to understand that Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye, repenting of her letter, desires no longer to repair to Paris; desires, in fact, to remain here at Condillac in your excellent care.”

“You apprehend the position exactly, monsieur.”

“To my mind,” said he, “it presents few features difficult of apprehension.”

Marius’s eyes flashed his mother a look of relief; but the Marquise, who had an ear more finely trained, caught the vibration of a second meaning in the emissary’s words.

“All being as you say, madame,” he continued, “will you tell me why, instead of some message to this purport, you sent Monsieur de Tressan back to me with a girl taken from some kitchen or barnyard, whom it was sought to pass off upon me as Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye?”

The Marquise laughed, and her son, who had shown signs of perturbation, taking his cue from her, laughed too.

“It was a jest, monsieur”—she told him, miserably conscious that the explanation could sound no lamer.

“My compliments, madame, upon the humour that prevails in Dauphiny. But your jest failed of its purpose. It did not amuse me, nor, so far as I could discern, was Monsieur de Tressan greatly taken with it. But all this is of little moment, madame,” he continued. “Since you tell me that Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye is content to remain here, I am satisfied that it is so.”

They were the very words that she desired to hear from him; yet his manner of uttering them gave her little reassurance. The smile on her lips was forced; her watchful eyes smiled not at all.

“Still,” he continued, “you will be so good as to remember that I am not my own master in this affair. Were that so, I should not fail to relieve you at once of my unbidden presence.”

“Oh, monsieur—”

“But, being the Queen’s emissary, I have her orders to obey, and those orders are to convey Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye to Paris. They make no allowance for any change that may have occurred in mademoiselle’s inclinations. If the journey is now distasteful to her, she has but her own rashness to blame in having sought it herself. What imports is that she is bidden by the Queen to repair to Paris; as a loyal subject she must obey the Queen’s commands; you, as a loyal subject, must see to it that she obeys them. So, madame, I count upon your influence with mademoiselle to see that she is ready to set out by noon to-morrow. One day already has been wasted me by your—ah—jest, madame. The Queen likes her ambassadors to be brisk.”

The Dowager reclined in her chair, and bit her lip. This man was too keen for her. She had no illusions. He had seen through her as if she had been made of glass; he had penetrated her artifices and detected her falsehoods. Yet feigning to believe her and them, he had first neutralized her only weapons—other than offensive—then used them for her own defeat. Marius it was who took up the conversation.

“Monsieur,” he cried—and there was a frown drawing together his fine brows—“what you suggest amounts to a tyranny on the Queen’s part.”

Garnache was on his feet, his chair grating the polished floor.

“Monsieur says?” quoth he, his glittering eye challenging the rash boy to repeat his words.

But the Dowager intervened with a little trill of laughter.

“Bon Dieu! Marius, what are you saying? Foolish boy! And you, Monsieur de Garnache, do not heed him, I beg you. We are so far from Court in this little corner of Dauphiny, and my son has been reared in so free an atmosphere that he is sometimes betrayed into expressions whose impropriety he does not realize.”

Garnache bowed in token of his perfect satisfaction, and at that moment two servants entered bearing flagons and beakers, fruits and sweetmeats, which they placed upon the table. The Dowager rose, and went to do the honours of the board. The servants withdrew.

“You will taste our wine of Condillac, monsieur?”

He acquiesced, expressing thanks, and watched her fill a beaker for him, one for herself, and another for her son. She brought him the cup in her hands. He took it with a grave inclination of the head. Then she proffered him the sweetmeats. To take one, he set down the cup on the table, by which he had also come to stand. His left hand was gloved and held his beaver and whip.

She nibbled, herself, at one of the comfits, and he followed her example. The boy, a trifle sullen since the last words, stood on the hearth with his back to the fire, his hands clasped behind him.

“Monsieur,” she said, “do you think it would enable you to comply with what I have signified to be not only our own wishes, but those of Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye herself, if she were to state them to you?”

He looked up sharply, his lips parting in a smile that revealed his strong white teeth.

“Are you proposing another of your jests, madame?”

She laughed outright. A wonderful assurance was hers, thought Monsieur de Garnache. “Mon Dieu! no, monsieur,” she cried. “If you will, you may see the lady herself.”

He took a turn in the apartment, idly, as does a man in thought.

“Very well,” said he, at last. “I do not say that it will alter my determination. But perhaps—yes, I should be glad of an opportunity of the honour of making Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye’s acquaintance. But no impersonations, I beg, madame!” He said it half-laughingly, taking his cue from her.

“You need have no fear of any.”

She walked to the door, opened it, and called “Gaston!” In answer came the page whom Garnache had found in the room when he was admitted.

“Desire Mademoiselle de La Vauvraye to come to us here at once,” she bade the boy, and closed the door.

Garnache had been all eyes for some furtive sign, some whispered word; but he had surprised neither.

His pacing had brought him to the opposite end of the board, where stood the cup of wine madame had poured for Marius. His own, Garnache had left untouched. As if abstractedly, he now took up the beaker, pledged madame with his glance, and drank. She watched him, and suddenly a suspicion darted through her mind—a suspicion that he suspected them.

Dieu! What a man was this! He took no chances. Madame reflected that this augured ill for the success of the last resource upon which, should all else fail, she was counting to keep mademoiselle at Condillac. It seemed incredible that one so wary and watchful should have committed the rashness of venturing alone into Condillac without taking his precautions to ensure his ability to retreat.

In her heart she felt daunted by him. But in the matter of that wine—the faintest of smiles hovered on her lips, her eyebrows went up a shade. Then she took up the cup that had been poured for the Parisian, and bore it to her son.

“Marius, you are not drinking,” said she. And seeing a command in her eyes; he took the beaker from her hand and bore it to his lips, emptying the half of it, whilst with the faintest smile of scorn the Dowager swept Garnache a glance of protest, as of one repudiating an unworthy challenge.

Then the door opened, and the eyes of all three were centred upon the girl that entered.

Monday's Illustrated Word: "Spawn of Pathor" by unknown writer (in English)

art byTex Blaisdell - Captain Science #6 - unknown artist - Youthful, October 1951.

 

 

Saturday's Good Reading: "Ingratidão" by Raul de Leoni (in Portuguese)

Nunca mais me esqueci!... Eu era criança
E em meu velho quintal, ao sol-nascente,
Plantei, com a minha mão ingênua e mansa,
Uma linda amendoeira adolescente.

Era a mais rútila e íntima esperança...
Cresceu... cresceu... e, aos poucos, suavemente,
Pendeu os ramos sobre um muro em frente
E foi frutificar na vizinhança...

Daí por diante, pela vida inteira,
Todas as grandes árvores que em minhas
Terras, num sonho esplêndido semeio,

Como aquela magnífica amendoeira,
E florescem nas chácaras vizinhas
E vão dar frutos no pomar alheio...

Friday's Sung Word: "Cheio de Saudade..." by Mário Travassos de Araújo (in Portuguese)

Vivo cheio de saudade
Vagando pelas ruas da cidade
Sorrindo sem razão para sorrir
Aguardando a decisão
De um destino que há de vir

Cheio de felicidade!
Para quem soube amar
Com carinho e lealdade
Eis a pura verdade
E ninguém pode contestar

Para que haver contestação?
Pois está mulher mágou
Meu coração
Sonhando com a felicidade
Eu ando tristonho
E vivo cheio de saudade.

 

You can listen  "Cheio de Saudade..." sung by Sílvio Caldas and Luís Barbosa with the piano of Nonô (1934) here. 

Thursday's Serial: “Journal Spirituel” by Sœur Marie de Saint-Pierre (in French) - XIV.

 

29

Le Prince d'Orléans

Lettre du 26 avril 1846

« Après la sainte communion, Notre-Seigneur m’a dit :

—Laissez-vous aller à l’impression de la grâce.

J’ai obéi, et ce divin Sauveur a commencé son opération. Mais que dirai-je maintenant ? O bonté infinie de mon Dieu, aidez-moi à parler, afin que vous soyez de plus en plus connue et bénie sur la terre !

—Regardez, me dit tout à coup Notre-Seigneur, voilà celui pour lequel vous avez prié ; je vous l’amène, afin qu’il vous remercie de ce que vous avez fait. Voyez à son égard l’excès de ma miséricorde, continua-t-il ; si je l’avais laissé sur la terre, il aurait eu l’ambition de ceindre son front d’une couronne temporelle, et maintenant je lui donne au ciel une couronne de gloire.

Je voyais, par une vue intellectuelle, cette âme à côté de Jésus. Comme elle se tournait vers moi :

—Ah ! — lui ai-je dit — c’est Notre-Seigneur qu’il faut remercier, car pour moi je ne suis rien; ce sont ses mérites que j’ai offerts à Dieu.

Cet âme me dit alors:

— C’est à la sainte Vierge que je dois mon salut; quand j’ai été traduite devant le tribunal de Dieu, j’ai été couverte des mérites infinis de Jésus-Christ, et c’est par la protection de saint Joseph que je suis sortie du purgatoire.

—O âme trop heureuse, — lui ai-je dit —, priez pour moi; et je répétais, dans un transport de reconnaissance envers la miséricorde infinie de Dieu: Heureuse âme, priez pour moi; prosternons-nous ensemble aux pieds de Notre-Seigneur Jésus-Christ; aidez-moi à lui rendre mes devoirs.

Notre-Seigneur m’a dit :

—Maintenant, celui-ci priera pour vous.

Et je répétais :

—Priez pour moi ! Mais, repris-je, comment vous invoquerai-je désormais ?

—Je m’appelle Ferdinand, nommez-moi Ferdinand ; je vous assure que je m’appelais Ferdinand.

Il me semblait qu’il répétait ainsi son nom plusieurs fois comme preuve de la vérité que je voyais, car j’ignorais qu’il eût ce nom. Il ajouta:

—Je règne maintenant avec Jésus-Christ; je suis couronné dans les cieux.

Je lui dis :

—Je sais que la bonté de Dieu est bien grande; cependant je n’osais penser que vous fussiez déjà entré dans la gloire, mais j’ai compris que c’était un chef-d’œuvre de la miséricorde divine.

Tout ce que je voyais, entendais et comprenais, me mettait hors de moi; l’excès de la divine charité envers cette âme me ravissait; les larmes et les sanglots accompagnaient cette émotion intérieure. Mais en ce doux moment la cloche du tour a sonné, et, comme l’obéissance m’appelait, j’ai quitté Notre-Seigneur pour aller remplir les devoirs de mon office. Alors, voulant m’assurer si ce que je venais de voir n’était point une illusion, j’ai demandé à une sœur que je rencontrai, et qui devait savoir le nom du prince en question, comment on l’appelait. Elle m’a répondu: “Il s’appelait Ferdinand”. Cette réponse a fait en moi une vive impression, parce que c’était la marque de la vérité; d’ailleurs, l’opération de Dieu en mon âme était des plus fortes ». [1]

 

L’Évangile de la Circoncision

«Comme ces bonnes gens voyaient que cette petite Bretonne, simple comme eux, entendait parfaitement leur langage et leurs peines, tâchant de les adoucir par la voix de la religion, ils s’en allaient contents; mais bientôt ils revenaient et m’amenaient leurs voisins; malgré la charité que j’avais pour eux, je m’excusais de les recevoir, afin de ne point m’éloigner de l’esprit de silence propre à notre sainte vocation. Notre-Seigneur, qui voyait cela, me donna le moyen de les satisfaire, et de plus celui de les soulager dans leurs maladies, en m’inspirant une dévotion qui consiste à porter sur soi l’Évangile de la Circoncision.

Voici comment je conçois cette pratique d’après ce qu’il m’a communiqué. Le démon met tout en œuvre pour ravir à Notre-Seigneur Jésus-Christ l’héritage conquis sur la croix, et il cherche sans cesse à dérober à ce bon Pasteur les brebis rachetées d’un si grand prix. Pour le mettre en fuite et empêcher ce loup ravisseur d’approcher du bercail, Jésus désire, comme il me l’a fait connaître, voir ses brebis marquées de son saint Nom et portant sur elles l’Évangile qui annonce à toutes les nations que le Verbe incarné a été nommé Jésus. Cet aimable Sauveur me fit connaître la vertu de ce Nom sacré : il chasserait le démon, et ceux qui auraient recours à cet acte de piété en recevraient de très grandes grâces. Il me dit aussi de mettre au bas de cet Évangile quelques paroles rappelant la victoire qu’il a remportée sur Satan en prenant par amour pour nous le nom de Jésus. Cette petite dévotion fut d’abord approuvée de mes supérieurs; leur charité permit plus tard qu’on imprimât l’Évangile de la Circoncision et qu’on gravât sur la même feuille le saint Enfant-Jésus et les initiales de son Nom adorable. La feuille était ensuite pliée et renfermée dans un petit morceau d’étoffe sur lequel on brodait une croix avec le Sacré-Cœur: ce qui faisait l’effet d’une médaille que l’on porte sur soi. Cette pratique reçut aussi l’approbation d’un grand vicaire [2], comme étant très conforme à l’esprit de l’Église ; car on voit dans l’histoire que les premiers chrétiens avaient l’habitude de porter sur eux le saint Évangile.

Notre-Seigneur m’avait fait connaître qu’il ne fallait point vendre ces pieux objets, mais les répandre en son nom, afin que tous pussent s’en procurer facilement; qu’il demandait cette aumône à la communauté pour sa gloire, et qu’il saurait bien l’en récompenser en prenant soin des affaires de la maison. Nos dignes supérieurs me donnèrent la permission de satisfaire le désir de l’Enfant-Jésus. Bientôt une infinité de personnes portèrent sur elles avec dévotion cet Évangile, et l’Enfant-Jésus ne tarda pas à les récompenser par des grâces spéciales [3]. J’étais continuellement occupée à disposer ces petits Évangiles; mais, quoique je fusse fort assidue à ce travail, je ne faisais pas assez pour contenter tous ceux qui en désiraient. Alors nos chères sœurs voulurent bien m’aider; j’étais enchantée de ce nouveau commerce, tout au profit et à la gloire du saint Enfant. Je fis pour lui un très joli petit Évangile, que je mis au cou de sa statue; comme il m’avait dit de ne point vendre ces objets et que beaucoup de gens riches voulaient donner quelque rétribution, je mis une bourse dans la main de mon petit roi, et nous disions à ces personnes: “Donnez ce que vous voudrez à Jésus, cela servira à lui acheter des langes”. Cet aimable Enfant leur payait au centuple ces aumônes par les grâces qu’il leur accordait. Il recueillit ainsi dans sa petite bourse une somme assez considérable. Alors notre Révérende Mère acheta des langes à Jésus, je veux dire des corporaux; la communauté, par les ordres de notre Mère, travailla ces langes, qui furent offerts au saint Enfant, en grande cérémonie, à sa fête du Saint-Sacrement et distribués dans l’octave aux paroisses pauvres du diocèse. on fit aussi un trousseau pour un pauvre petit enfant naissant, qui représentait la pauvreté de Jésus à sa naissance ».

«La bonne et candide sœur nous apprend encore que Notre-Seigneur demandait comme une aumône qu’on distribuât ces feuilles le plus possible et qu’on y écrivit à la fin ces mots:

 

                                   Quand Jésus fut nommée,

                                   Satan vaincu fut désarmé». [4]

 

«Il m’a fait connaître combien il lui était glorieux qu’on célébrât sa victoire par ces paroles; elles font frémir de rage le démon; il bénira les personnes qui porteront sur elles cet Évangile; il les défendra contre les attaques de Satan».

«Tandis que je cherchais les moyens de couvrir les frais de ces dépenses,[5] Notre-Seigneur m’ordonna de m’adresser à son serviteur, Monsieur Dupont, et de lui dire que l’Enfant-Jésus lui demandait cette œuvre de charité comme la dîme des biens qu’il lui avait donnés, et que cette œuvre lui serait fort agréable. Je dis alors à ce divin Sauveur:

—Si vous vouliez me promettre quelque bien pour lui, ou du moins quelque grâce pour sa famille.

Notre-Seigneur me répondit:

—Son amour est assez grand pour me rendre ce service sans qu’il soit besoin qu’on lui promette des grâces afin de l’y engager, et, pour cet amour désintéressé, je le récompenserai plus magnifiquement dans le ciel ; quant à vous, faites cette commission comme étant ma petite domestique; ne craignez point de demander pour moi, et vous aurez le même mérite que si vous faisiez l’œuvre.

«Voici à peu près les paroles que Notre-Seigneur m’a fait entendre:

—Ma fille, ne vous affligez point de ce que le travail de vos petits Évangiles ne vous laisse pas jouir de ma présence comme vous le voudriez ; car il vaut mieux sacrifier ces consolations pour empêcher que je ne sois offensé. J’ai dessein de sauver des âmes par cette dévotion, elle a déjà fait éviter plusieurs péchés.

[S’adressant à la Mère prieure, la sœur ajoute]:

«Notre-Seigneur m’a dit encore qu’il désirait qu’avec l’argent reçu des petits Évangiles, vous fassiez célébrer cinquante messes pour sa plus grande gloire et pour la salut des âmes, et qu’ensuite, si on en recueillait assez pour couvrir les frais d’une impression nouvelle des prières de la réparation, je devais être convaincue qu’il n’y a point d’illusion de ma part, mais reconnaître que ce divin Sauveur s’est communiqué à mon âme.

Vous savez que je ne pensais plus à réclamer l’impression de ces prières. D’après Monseigneur l’Archevêque, on ne peut les comprendre que difficilement; mais aujourd’hui Notre-Seigneur les demande pour les âmes religieuses, afin qu’elles attirent sa miséricorde sur la France, qu’elles apaisent sa justice et que les méchants soient confondus. J’abandonne ces choses à vos lumières, ma très Révérende Mère ; tout ce que je cherche, c’est que la sainte volonté de Dieu soit faite».

 

Les grâces obtenues

«A l’époque du tirage, plusieurs jeunes gens, sollicités par la tendresse de leurs mères, qui craignaient de perdre en eux leurs soutiens, ont consenti à porter sur eux le petit Évangile, et ne sont pas tombés au sort [6]. D’autres ont obtenu des conversions particulières. Ainsi, une jeune personne faisait gémir ses parents par les injures dont elle les accablait, se livrant à de terribles accès de colère; elle a porté le petit Évangile, et cela seul a suffi pour chasser le démon; elle a aussitôt demandé pardon à ses parents, et s’est approchée des sacrements. Un pécheur endurci, réduit à l’extrémité, refusait opiniâtrement de recevoir les secours de la religion; son respectable curé, désolé de voir cette brebis de son troupeau devenir la proie du loup infernal, eut recours au petit Évangile ; il en fit mettre un au pied du lit de ce malade, qui, touché aussitôt, demanda les sacrements et mourut en bon chrétien. Un autre, qui avait depuis de longues années abandonné la pratique de ses devoirs, voulut bien cependant porter le petit Évangile, et réciter la prière qui y est jointe; il sentit dès lors une grâce puissante, qui le sollicitait sans cesse de revenir à Dieu; il fut plusieurs mois rebelle, mais enfin, cédant à la vertu du saint Nom de Jésus, il alla se jeter aux pieds d’un confesseur, et sa parfaite conversion a rempli de joie ceux qui avaient gémi sur sa conduite passée.

Diverses personnes ont ressenti les effets merveilleux de cette salutaire dévotion, dans leurs maladies ou infirmités corporelles. Une petite fille a été délivrée d’une grosse fièvre, qui l’avait réduite à l’extrémité ; tout annonçait sa fin prochaine ; son oncle lui passa au cou le petit Évangile; ils le récitèrent pendant neuf jours avec les oraisons qui y sont jointes, et l’enfant fut parfaitement guérie.

Une dame avait à la gorge, depuis sept ans, un ulcère qui l’empêchait quelquefois de prendre sa nourriture ; elle avait même de la peine à faire la sainte communion; on lui avait administré beaucoup de remèdes inutilement. Ayant pris sur elle le petit Évangile, elle a été guérie si promptement, que les personnes qui la traitaient en furent d’un étonnement extrême; aussi leur a-t-elle fait connaître à quel divin remède elle devait sa guérison.

Un grand nombre de femmes enceintes ont été comme miraculeusement délivrées par le petit Évangile ; c’est surtout sur elles qu’il s’est opéré le plus de grâces extraordinaires.

Une petite fille, à qui nous avions donné un Évangile du saint Nom de Jésus, fit une chute très grave. Quand on la releva, elle ne pouvait faire aucun mouvement; ses parents, désolés, craignaient qu’elle n’eût les reins brisés, et voulaient aller chercher le médecin, lorsque l’enfant se mit à crier: “N’y allez point, mais donnez-moi ma petite relique ; le bon Jésus peut me guérir”. On lui mit au cou le petit Évangile; aussitôt elle cessa de crier, s’endormit profondément, et, à son réveil, se trouva guérie sans se ressentir aucunement de sa chute. La foi de cette enfant avait été récompensée; tous ceux qui croiront comme elle n’espéreront pas en vain.

Plusieurs missionnaires ont porté des Évangiles du saint Nom de Jésus dans les pays étrangers ; je citerai, en terminant, la conversion d’un grand pécheur.

Le 26 décembre 1845, il vint une personne, tout éplorée, recommander aux prières un homme qui était à l’extrémité; «mais, disait-elle, il n’y a pas moyen de lui parler des sacrements, car il est comme un furieux». On remit à cette personne un petit Évangile pour le passer au cou du malade, et une feuille pour réciter les prières du saint Nom de Jésus. Cette dame, pleine de foi et de zèle, ayant appris que deux hommes devaient veiller toute la nuit auprès du moribond, les pria de tâcher de lui mettre au cou le petit Évangile, et de réciter les prières de la feuille ; ils le lui promirent, et s’acquittèrent de leur mission auprès de ce malheureux, qui parut tout d’un coup changé. Le voyant plus calme, ils lui proposèrent un prêtre; il accepta, et, après s’être confessé, il reçu le saint viatique et mourut dans de très bonnes dispositions. Satan, furieux de voir cette proie lui échapper, a, pour s’en venger sans doute, tourné sa rage contre moi. Dieu sait ce que j’ai souffert de lui au moment de la mort de cet homme; pendant deux heures, j’avais autour de moi comme une légion de démons; j’étais comme possédée ; il me semblait entendre leur voix horrible me solliciter par leurs discours les plus séduisantes; l’action de ces esprits infernaux à mon égard était des plus violentes ; je n’avais jamais eu pareil combat à soutenir; mais le divin Époux de mon âme m’a fortifiée par sa puissance, et sa grâce m’a rendue victorieuse. J’allai me jeter aux pieds de notre Révérende Mère, qui fut effrayée en voyant la pâleur de mon visage ; je lui découvris les angoisses de mon pauvre cœur; elle eut la charité de me consoler, et, quand elle m’eut donné sa bénédiction, je me sentis aussitôt délivrée et je passai la nuit dans la paix du Seigneur ».

 

La Salette

«Monseigneur ne voulait point se décider en faveur de l’œuvre; sa prudence l’empêchait de prendre cette initiative. je vis bien qu’il n’y avait d’espérance et de consolation pour moi que dans la prière, par l’entremise de Marie, notre puissante avocate, et je récitai tous les jours le chapelet afin d’obtenir le salut de la France et l’établissement de la Réparation dans toutes les villes du royaume; toutes mes prières et mes communions, tous mes désirs, toutes mes pensées se dirigeaient vers cette œuvre si chère à mon cœur. J’aurais voulu, si cela eût été possible, la proclamer par toute la France, en faisant connaître à ma patrie les malheurs qui la menaçaient. Ah ! que je souffre d’être seule dépositaire d’une chose qui est si importante, et que je suis obligée de garder dans le silence du cloître! Vierge sainte, apparaissez dans le monde à quelqu’un, et faites-lui part de ce qui m’est communiqué au sujet de la France.»[7]

 

Lettre de Monsieur Dupont

[Suite à une communication de Sœur Marie de Sainte à la Mère Supérieure, juste au début du mois de septembre 1846, et, avant l’apparition [8] sur la «sainte montagne»...]

«En 1846, vers les premiers jours du mois de septembre, à la veille de partir avec ma famille pour Saint-Servan, en Bretagne, j’allai prendre le commissions de la Révérende Mère, dont quelques parents demeuraient à Saint-Malo. Je fus obligé d’écrire la liste, assez longue, des commissions qui m’étaient données. Nous nous entretînmes ensuite de la sœur Marie de Saint-Pierre.

Voici ce qu’elle vient de me dire — ajouta la Révérende Mère. Et comme au même instant je me trouvais un crayon à la main, j’écrivis ce qui suit: Notre-Seigneur s’adressant à la sœur, lui dit : Ma mère a parlé aux hommes de ma colère; elle veut la fléchir; elle m’a montré son sein et m’a dit : “Voilà le sein qui vous a nourri, laissez-lui répandre des bénédictions sur mes autres enfants” .Alors elle est descendue, pleine de miséricorde, sur la terre; ayez donc confiance en elle.

Je mis ces lignes dans mon livre de prières et je n’y pensai plus. Ne me trouvais-je pas devant un langage mystérieux, où le passé se confondait avec le présent et le futur ? Je me contentai donc de me maintenir, d’une manière un peu vague, dans la conviction où j’étais depuis longtemps, que la sœur était la confidente de Notre-Seigneur. Cette conviction prit un nouvel essor lorsque, le 22 octobre de la même année, je reçus copie de la première lettre de Monsieur le curé Corps, relative à l’apparition de la sainte Vierge à la Salette, le 19 septembre. C’était l’accomplissement de la prédiction des premiers jours de septembre. J’en fis une copie et me hâtai de l’expédier à Monsieur le curé de Corps, qui ne tarda pas à m’écrire: “Dès le premier jour, j’ai cru ; aujourd’hui, si on peut parler ainsi, je crois double”.

Je m’étais fait une loi de ne rien écrire de ce qui m’était révélé, en secret, des communications de la sœur Saint-Pierre. Mais il est évident que, dans le cas dont je viens de parler, j’obéissais à un bon mouvement, puisque la phrase que j’ai transcrite ne se trouve pas dans le recueil des Révélations. A ce propos, la Révérende Mère me dit:

—J’ordonnais toujours à la sœur de mettre par écrit ce qu’elle voulait me rapporter; mais il est probable que, dans la circonstance actuelle, je l’aurai écoutée, et par mégarde j’aurai oublié ma formule ordinaire, qui tendait à la tenir dans l’humilité: Ma fille, par obéissance, allez écrire ce que vous voulez dire, je n’ai pas le temps de vous écouter. Or, j’ai bien pu, dans l’espace de cinq ans, faire plusieurs fois le même oubli, surtout lorsque la communication était courte et débitée avec la volubilité ordinaire de la sœur. Et dans ces cas-là elle se serait bien gardée de prendre la plume.

Cette explication est bien simple, bien naturelle, ce semble, et tout à fait concluante.

Il est touchant, plus qu’on ne peut penser et dire, de voir notre auguste Mère confier à de pauvres petits enfants les amertumes de son cœur maternel. N’est-il pas suffisant qu’elle ait été arrosée du sang de son divin Fils sur le Calvaire ? Faut-il aujourd’hui qu’une génération impie, le blasphème à la bouche, rappelle les affreuses stations des rues de Jérusalem ? Et que deviendrons-nous, si Marie ne peut plus retenir le bras de Jésus ?...» [9]

 

La joie de sœur Saint-Pierre

«Je vous rends grâces, ô divine Marie, de m’avoir donné ces deux petits bergers, comme des trompettes éclatantes pour faire retentir sur la montagne, aux oreilles de la France, ce qui m’a été communiqué dans la solitude. La voix de mes chers petits associés fut bientôt entendue de toute la terre; leurs publications produisirent une grande impression sur les âmes; le rapport si frappant de leur communications avec les miennes fit penser à mes dignes supérieurs qu’il serait utile d’en donner connaissance pour la gloire de Dieu et l’avancement de son œuvre.

Notre-Seigneur dans l’Évangile a dit: “Je vous bénis, mon Père, de ce que vous avez caché ces choses aux sages et aux grands du siècle, et vous les avez révélées aux petits; oui, ô Père, parce qu’il vous a plu d’en agir ainsi”. Il me semble que nous pouvons appliquer ces paroles à l’œuvre de la Réparation et aux pauvres petits instruments dont Dieu s’est servi pour l’établir dans l’Église. O mon Dieu, que vos voies sont incompréhensibles et cachées aux yeux des hommes ! Qui ne sera dans l’étonnement en voyant ce que Notre-Seigneur et la sainte Vierge ont accompli pour faire naître une si grande œuvre ? Ils ont choisi sur la terre une petite trinité de personnes, les plus ignorantes, les plus méprisables, dans l’âme desquelles ils ont opéré des prodiges de grâce, afin de les rendre propres à concourir ensemble à l’accomplissement des desseins de l’adorable Trinité pour la gloire de son très saint Nom. La première est une petite bergère qui s’était consacrée au saint Enfant-Jésus pour garder ses brebis sur la montagne du Carmel; les deux autres sont deux petits bergers qui gardaient leurs troupeaux sur la montagne de la Salette. Ces trois petits missionnaires sont chargés d’annoncer à la France les malheurs dont elle es menacée, à cause de la transgression des commandements du Seigneur; tous les trois ont aussi mission d’annoncer pardon et miséricorde, si l’on revient à Dieu par la pénitence.

Ces trois messagers travaillent ensemble à la même œuvre; chacun fait sa partie selon sa profession; la petite bergère du Carmel est chargée de prier, d’écrire, de garder le silence dans sa solitude; les petits bergers de la Salette, au contraire, doivent parler à haute voix sur le sommet de la montagne; et paraître en public aux yeux d’innombrables pèlerins qui viennent entendre leurs prédications. Bientôt tous sont instruits des crimes que le ciel leur reproche et de la colère divine allumée contre eux; ils sont consternés, et se demandent ce qu’ils feront pour la désarmer. Consolez-vous: la bergère du Carmel sait le secret d’apaiser la justice, allez la visiter. Comme les bergers de la Salette, elle vous dira: Dieu est extrêmement irrité contre son peuple à cause de la violation du dimanche et des blasphèmes. depuis quatre ans, elle entend gronder l’orage qui menace la France; mais votre sort est entre vos mains. Offrez pour vos crimes une œuvre réparatrice, et vous obtiendrez miséricorde; vous verrez alors couler «le lait et le miel » du sein de « la montagne de Dieu». Marie est cette montagne mystérieuse qui, par l’excellence de son élection, était élevée au-dessus des anges et des saints!

Cependant n’ayez pas une confiance présomptueuse. Prions, prions et pleurons nos péchés; car il viendra un temps, qui n’est pas éloigné, où la France sera ébranlée jusque dans ses fondements. Alors elle tremblera; mais elle ne sera pas engloutie, si aux yeux du Seigneur apparaît l’œuvre réparatrice dans les villes de ce royaume: celle qui devait être réduite en cendres ne sera que légèrement blessée.»[10]

 

[1] « Cette communication fut, comme toutes les autres, mise sous les yeux de Monseigneur Morlot. Ce prélat en fut si frappé et y vit tellement une inspiration surnaturelle, qu’il crut devoir en écrire à la pieuse mère du défunt, la reine Amélie, qu’on savait tristement préoccupée du sort éternel de son fils. Il est facile de comprendre quelle précieuse et légitime consolation procura à cette chrétienne inquiète et affligée la charitable démarche de l’archevêque ». Abbé Janvier: “Vie de la Sœur Marie de Saint-Pierre”.

[2] Ce n’était qu’une approbation verbale. Plus tard, quinze jours après la mort de la Sœur, Monsieur Dupont obtint l’approbation officielle.

[3] Document G, page 1.

[4] Abbé Janvier: “La vie de la Sœur Marie de Saint-Pierre”.

[5] Dans les premiers temps...

[6] N’ont pas été appelés à faire leur service militaire.

[7] Document C, page 57.

[8] La Vierge Marie est apparue, le 19 septembre 1846, à La Salette, dans les Alpes, diocèse de Grenoble, à deux petits enfants: Mélanie et Maximin.

      Notre Mère du ciel y est apparue en pleurs... Elle y demanda, à « son peuple » — la France — la sanctification du saint jour du Dimanche et la réparation du blasphème. « Si mon peuple ne veut pas se soumettre, je suis forcée de laisser aller le bras de mon Fils; il est si lourd que je ne puis plus le retenir. Oh! si vous saviez combien je souffre pour vous!... » Elle confia également aux enfants un secret assez important sur l’état et l’avenir de l’Église. Ce même secret suscita bien des polémiques. Il fut, malgré cela, approuvé à Rome, par le Chanoine Lippidi. Mélanie, quand à elle, entra au couvent et, après bien des vicissitudes, rendit son âme à Dieu à Altamura, en Italie, où son corps repose. Maximin, après avoir été zouave pontifical, mourut presque dans l’oubli.

[9] Abbé Janvier - « Vie de Monsieur Dupont », T 1, page 161. — Document T, page 9.

[10] Document C. page 63.