Now let me describe my journey in some detail.  At three o’clock in the morning of November 4, we passed through the silent streets.  Lisieux still lay shrouded in the darkness of night.  I felt that I was going out into the unknown, and that great things were awaiting me in Rome.  When we reached Paris, Papa took us to see all the sights.  For me there was but one—­Our Lady of Victories.  I can never tell you what I felt at her shrine; the graces Our Lady granted me were like those of my First Communion Day.  I was filled with peace and happiness.  In this holy spot the Blessed Virgin, my Mother, told me plainly that it was really she who had smiled on me and cured me.  With intense fervour I entreated her to keep me always, and to realise my heart’s desire by hiding me under her spotless mantle, and I also asked her to remove from me every occasion of sin.

I was well aware that during this journey I should come across things that might disturb me; knowing nothing of evil, I feared I might discover it.  As yet I had not experienced that “to the pure all things are pure,"[7] that a simple and upright soul does not see evil in anything, because evil only exists in impure hearts and not in inanimate objects.  I prayed specially to St. Joseph to watch over me; from my childhood, devotion to him has been interwoven with my love for our Blessed Lady.  Every day I said the prayer beginning:  “St. Joseph, Father and Protector of Virgins” . . . so I felt I was well protected and quite safe from danger.

We left Paris on November 7, after our solemn Consecration to the Sacred Heart in the Basilica of Montmartre.[8] Each compartment of the train was named after a Saint, and the selection was made in honour of some Priest occupying it—­his own patron or that of his parish being chosen.  But in the presence of all the pilgrims our compartment was named after St. Martin!  My Father, deeply touched by this compliment, went at once to thank Mgr.  Legoux, Vicar-General of Coutances and director of the pilgrimage.  From this onwards he was often called “Monsieur Saint Martin.”

Father Reverony watched my behaviour closely.  I could tell that he was doing so; at table, if I were not opposite to him, he would lean forward to look at me and listen to what I was saying.  I think he must have been satisfied with his investigations, for, towards the end of the journey, he seemed more favourably disposed.  I say towards the end, for in Rome he was far from being my advocate, as I will tell you presently.  Still I would not have it thought he deceived me in any way by falling short of the good will he had shown at Bayeux.  On the contrary, I am sure that he always felt kindly towards me, and that if he opposed my wishes it was only to put me to the test.

On our way into Italy we passed through Switzerland, with its high mountains, their snowy peaks lost in the clouds, its rushing torrents, and its deep valleys filled with giant ferns and purple heather.  Great good was wrought in my soul by these beauties of nature so abundantly scattered abroad.  They lifted it to Him Who had been pleased to lavish such masterpieces upon this transient earth.