And now Pauline’s clothing day was drawing near; but, fearing to distress me, no one dared mention it in my presence, since it was taken for granted that I should not be well enough to be there.  Deep down in my heart, however, I firmly believed that God would give me the consolation of seeing dear Pauline on that day.  I was quite sure that this feast would be unclouded; I knew that Our Lord would not try His Spouse by depriving her of my presence, she had already suffered so much on account of my illness.  And so it turned out.  I was there, able to embrace my dear little Mother, to sit on her knee, and, hiding myself under her veil, to receive her loving caresses.  I was able to feast my eyes upon her—­she looked so lovely in her veil and mantle of white.  Truly it was a day of happiness in the midst of heavy trials; but this day, or rather this hour, passed only too quickly, and soon we were in the carriage which was to take us away from the Carmel.  On reaching home I was made to lie down, though I did not feel at all tired; but next day I had a serious relapse, and became so ill that, humanly speaking, there was no hope of any recovery.

I do not know how to describe this extraordinary illness.  I said things which I had never thought of; I acted as though I were forced to act in spite of myself; I seemed nearly always to be delirious; and yet I feel certain that I was never, for a minute, deprived of my reason.  Sometimes I remained in a state of extreme exhaustion for hours together, unable to make the least movement, and yet, in spite of this extraordinary torpor, hearing the least whisper.  I remember it still.  And what fears the devil inspired!  I was afraid of everything; my bed seemed to be surrounded by frightful precipices; nails in the wall took the terrifying appearance of long fingers, shrivelled and blackened with fire, making me cry out in terror.  One day, while Papa stood looking at me in silence, the hat in his hand was suddenly transformed into some horrible shape, and I was so frightened that he went away sobbing.

But if God allowed the devil to approach me in this open way, Angels too were sent to console and strengthen me.  Marie never left me, and never showed the least trace of weariness in spite of all the trouble I gave her—­for I could not rest when she was away.  During meals, when Victoire took care of me, I never ceased calling tearfully “Marie!  Marie!” When she wanted to go out, it was only if she were going to Mass or to see Pauline that I kept quiet.  As for Leonie and my little Celine, they could not do enough for me.  On Sundays they shut themselves up for hours with a poor child who seemed almost to have lost her reason.  My own dear sisters, how much I made you suffer!  My uncle and aunt were also devoted to me.  My aunt came to see me every day, and brought me many little gifts.  I could never tell you how my love for these dear ones increased during this illness.  I understood better than ever what Papa had so often told us:  “Always remember, children, that your uncle and aunt have devoted themselves to you in a way that is quite exceptional.”  In his old age he experienced this himself, and now he must bless and protect those who lavished upon him such affectionate care.[5]