In the afternoon of that October day, 1882, behind the grating of the Carmel, I saw my beloved Pauline, now become Sister Agnes of Jesus.  Oh, how much I suffered in that parlour!  As I am writing the story of my soul, it seems to me that I ought to tell you everything.  Well, I acknowledge that I hardly counted the first pains of this parting, in comparison with those which followed.  I, who had been accustomed to talk with my little Mother of all that was in my heart, could now scarcely snatch two or three minutes with her at the end of the family visits; even these short minutes were passed in tears, and I went away with my heart torn with grief.

I did not realise that it was impossible to give us each half an hour, and that of course Papa and Marie must have the largest share.  I could not understand all this, and I said from the depths of my heart:  “Pauline is lost to me.”

This suffering so affected me that I soon became seriously ill.  The illness was undoubtedly the work of the devil, who, in his fury at this first entry into the Carmel, tried to avenge himself on me for the great harm my family was to do him in the future.  However, he little knew that the Queen of Heaven was watching faithfully over her Little Flower, that she was smiling upon it from on high, ready to still the tempest just when the delicate and fragile stalk was in danger of being broken once and for all.  At the close of the year 1882 I began to suffer from constant headaches; they were bearable, however, and did not prevent me from continuing my studies.  This lasted till the Easter of 1883.  Just then Papa went to Paris with my elder sisters, and confided Celine and me to the care of our uncle and aunt.  One evening I was alone with my uncle, and he talked so tenderly of my Mother and of bygone days that I was deeply moved and began to cry.  My sensitiveness touched him too; he was surprised that one of my age should feel as I did.  So he determined to do all he could to divert my mind during the holidays.

But God had decided otherwise.  That very evening my headache became acute, and I was seized with a strange shivering which lasted all night.  My aunt, like a real mother, never left me for a moment; all through my illness she lavished on me the most tender and devoted care.  You may imagine my poor Father’s grief when he returned from Paris to find me in this hopeless state; he thought I was going to die, but Our Lord might have said to him:  “This sickness is not unto death, but for the glory of God."[4]

Yes, God was glorified by means of this trial, by the wonderful resignation of my Father and sisters.  And to Marie especially what suffering it brought, and how grateful I am to this dear sister!  She seemed to divine my wants by instinct, for a mother’s heart is more knowing than the science of the most skilful doctors.