CHAPTER XIX.

To resume the thread of my history, the small-pox
had so much hurt one of my eyes, that it was feared I
would lose it. The gland at the corner of my eye was
much injured. An imposthume arose from time to
time between the nose and the eye, which gave me
exquisite pain till it was lanced. It swelled all my
head to that degree, that I could not bear even a pil¬
low. The least noise was agony to me, though some¬
times they made a great commotion in my chamber.
And yet this was a precious time to me, for two rea¬
sons: the first, because I was left in bed alone, where I
had a sweet retreat without interruption; the other,
because it answered the desire I had for suffering, —
which desire was so great, that all the austerities of
the body would have been but as a drop of water to
quench so great a fire; and indeed the severities and
rigors which I then exercised were extreme — but they
did not appease this appetite for the cross. It is thou
alone, O Crucified Savior, who canst make the cross
truly effectual for the death of self. Let others bless
themselves in their ease or gaiety, grandeur or pleas¬
ures, poor temporary heavens; as for me, my desires
were all turned another way, even to the silent path of
suffering for Christ, and to be united to him, through
the mortification of all that was of nature in me, that
my senses, appetites and will, being dead to these,
might wholly live in him.

4

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I obtained leave to go to Paris for the cure of my
eye; and yet it was much more through the desire I
had to see Monsieur Bertot, a man of profound experi¬
ence, whom Mother Granger had lately assigned to me
for my director. I went to take leave of my father,
who embraced me with peculiar tenderness, little think¬
ing then that it would be our last adieu.

Paris was a place now no longer to be dreaded as
in times past. The throngs only served to draw me
into a deep recollection, and the noise of the streets
but augmented my inward prayer. I saw Monsieur
Bertot, who did not prove of that service to me, which
he would have been if I had then the power to explain
myself; but though I wished earnestly to hide nothing
from him, yet God held me so closely to him, that I
could scarcely tell him anything at alL As soon as I
spoke to him, everything vanished from my mind,
so that I could remember nothing but some few faults
which I told him. As I saw him very seldom, and
nothing stayed in my recollection, and as I read of
nothing any way resembling my case, I knew not how
to open myself upon it. Besides, I desired to make
nothing known, but the evil which was in me. There¬
fore Monsieur Bertot knew me not, even till his death.
This was ot great utility to me, by taking away every
support, and making me truly die to myself.

I went to pass the ten days, from the Ascension to
Whitsuntide, at an abbey four leagues from Paris, the
abbess of which had a particular friendship for me.
Here my union with God seemed to be deeper and
more continued, becoming always simple, but at the
same time more close and intimate.

One day I awoke suddenly at four o’clock in the

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125

morning, with a strong impression on my mind that
my father was dead; and though at the same time my
soul was in a very great contentment, yet my love for
him affected it with sorrow, and my body with weak¬
ness. Under the strokes and daily troubles which
befell me, my will was so subservient to thine,
O my God, that it appeared absolutely united to it.
There seemed, indeed, to be no will left in me but
thine only. My own disappeared, and no desires, ten¬
dencies or inclinations were left, but to the one sole
object of whatever was most pleasing to thee, be it
what it would. If I had a will, it was in union with
thine, as two well tuned lutes in concert, — that which
is not touched renders the same sound as that which
is touched; it is but one and the same sound, one
pure harmony. It is this union of the will which
establishes in perfect peace. Yet, though my own will
was lost, as to its operations, I have found since, in the
strange states I have been obliged to pass through,
how much it had yet to cost me to have it totally lost,
as to all its properties in all the circumstances, and
whole extent thereof, so that the soul should retain
no more any interest or desire of its own, of either
time or eternity, but only the interest of God alone, in
the manner that is known to himself, and not in our
way of conceiving. How many souls are there which
think their own wills quite lost, while they are yet very
far from it! They would find they still subsist, if they
met with severe trials. Who is there who does not
wish something for himself, either of interest, wealth,
honor, pleasure, conveniency, liberty, &c.? And he
who thinks his mind loose from all these objects,
because he possesses them, would soon perceive his

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attachment to them, were he stripped of those he is
possessed of. If there are found in a whole age three
persons so dead to everything, as to be utterly resigned
to providence without any exception, they may well
pass for prodigies of grace.

In the afternoon as I was with the abbess, I told
her I had strong presentiments of my father’s death.
Indeed I could hardly speak, I was so affected within,
and enfeebled without. Presently one came to tell her
that she was wanted in the parlor. It was a messenger
come in haste, with an account from my husband that
my father was ill. And as I afterwards found, he suf¬
fered only twelve hours. He wa3 therefore by this
time dead. The abbess returning, says, “Here is a
letter from your husband, who writes that your father
is taken violently ill.” I said to her, “ He is dead, I
cannot have a doubt about it.” I sent away to Paris
immediately, to hire a coach, to go the sooner; mine
waited for me at the midway. I went off at nine
o’clock at night. They said, “I was going to destroy
myself,” for I had no acquaintance with me; as I had
sent away my maid to Paris, to put everything in
order there; and being in a religious house, I had no
mind to keep any footman with me. The abbess told
me, “that since I thought my father was dead, it would
be rashness in me to expose myself, and run the risk
of my life in that manner; that coaches could hardly
pass the way I was going, it being no beaten road.”
I answered, “ That it was my indispensible duty to go
to assist my father, and that I ought not, on a bare
apprehension, to exempt myself from it.” I then went
alone, abandoned to Providence, with people unknown.
My weakness was so great, that I could hardly keep

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my seat in tlie coach, and yet I was often forced to
alight, on account of dangerous places in the road.

In this way I wa3 obliged, about midnight, to cross
a forest, notorious for murders and robberies. The
most intrepid dreaded it; but my resignation left me
scarce any room to think at all about it. Oh, what
fears and uneasiness does a resigned soul spare itself !
Thus all alone I arrived within five leagues of my own
habitation, where I found my confessor who had
opposed me, with one of my relations, waiting for me.
The sweet consolation I had enjoyed, when alone, was
now interrupted. My confessor, ignorant of my state,
restrained me entirely. My grief was of such a nature
that I could not shed a tear. And I was ashamed to
hear a thing which I knew but too well, without giving
any exterior mark of grief. The inward and profound
peace I enjoyed dawned on my countenance, and the
state I was in did not permit me to speak, or to do
such things as are usually expected from persons of
piety. I could do nothing but love and be silent.

I found on my arrival at home, that my father was
already buried, on account of the excessive heat. It was
ten o’clock at night. All wore the habit of mourning.
I had travelled thirty leagues in a day and a night. As
I was very weak, not having taken any nourishment, I
was instantly put to bed.

About two o’clock in the morning my husband got
up, and having gone out of my chamber, he returned
presently, crying out with all his might, “ My daughter
is dead ! ” She was my only daughter, as dearly be¬
loved as truly lovely. She had so many graces both
of body and mind conferred on her, that one must have
been insensible not to have loved her. She had an

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extraordinary share of love to God. Often was she
found in corners at prayer. As soon as she peTceived
me at prayer* she came and joined; and if she dis¬
covered that I had been without her, she would weep
bitterly and cry, “Ah, mamma, you pray but I don’t."
When we were alone and she saw my eyes closed—
she’d whisper, “Are you asleep?” and then cry out,
“Ah no, you are praying to our dear Jesus;” and
dropping on her knees before me, she would begin to
pray too. She was several times whipped by her
grandmother, because she said, “ She would never have
any other husband but our Lord,” yet she could never
make her say otherwise. She was innocent and modest
as a little angel; very dutiful and endearing, and withal
very beautiful. Her father doated on her, and to me
she was very dear, much more for the qualities of her
mind than those of her beautiful person. I looked
upon her as my only consolation on earth; for she had
as much affection for me, as her brother had aversion
and contempt. She died of an unseasonable bleeding.
But what shall I say? She died by the hands of him
who was pleased, for wise reasons of his own, to strip
me of all.

There now remained to me only the son of my
sorrow. He fell ill to the point of death, but was
restored at the prayer of Mother Granger, now my
only consolation after God. I no more wept for my
child than for my father. I could only say, “Thou,
O Lord, gave her to me; it pleases thee to take her
back again, for she was thine.” As for my father, his
virtue was so generally known, that I must rather be
silent, than enter upon the subject. His reliance on
God, his faith and patience were wonderful. Both died

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in July, 1672. From henceforth crosses were not spared
me, and though I have had abundance of them hith¬
erto, yet they were only the shadows of those which I
have been since obliged to pass through, pursuant to a
marriage contract, which I had lately entered into with
our Lord Jesus Christ. In this spiritual marriage I
claimed for my dowry only crosses, scourges, persecu¬
tions, ignominies, lowliness, and nothingness of self,
which in his great goodness, and for wise ends, as I
have seen, he has been pleased to grant and confer
upon me.

One day, being in great distress on account of the
redoubling of outward and inward crosses, I went into
my closet to give vent to my grief. M. Bertot was
brought into my mind, with this wish, “ Oh, that he
was sensible of what I suffer! ” Though he wrote but
very seldom, and with great difficulty, yet he wrote me
a letter dated the same day about the cross, the finest
and most consolatory he ever wrote me on that sub¬
ject. Sometimes my spirit was so oppressed with
continual crosses, which scarcely gave me any relaxa¬
tion, that when alone my eyes turned every way, to see
if they could find anything to give some relief. A
word, a sigh, a trifle, or to know that anyone took part
in my grief, would have been some comfort; but
that was not granted me, not even to look toward
heaven, or make any complaint. Love held me then
so closely, that it would have this miserable nature to
perish, without giving it any support or nourishment.

Oh, my dearest Lord! thou yet gave my soul a
victorious support, which made it triumph over all the
weaknesses of nature, and seized thy knife to sacrifice
it without sparing. And yet this nature so perverse,

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and full of artifices to save its life, at last took the
course of nourishing itself on its own despair, and on
its fidelity under such heavy and continual oppression,
and withal sought to conceal the value it attributed
thereto. But thy eyes, O my divine Love, were too
penetrating not to detect the subtilty. Wherefore,
thou, O my Shepherd, changed thy conduct toward it.
Thou sometimes comforted it with thy crook and thy
staff; that is to say, by thy conduct as loving as cruci¬
fying, but it was only to reduce it to the last extremity,
as I shall show hereafter.

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