As the warriors of old felt their courage grow in face of peril, so our joy increased in proportion to the fatigue and danger we had to face to attain the object of our desires.  Celine, more foreseeing than I, had listened to the guide.  She remembered that he had pointed out a particular stone marked with a cross, and had told us it was the place where the Martyrs had fought the good fight.  She set to work to find it, and having done so we threw ourselves on our knees on this sacred ground.  Our souls united in one and the same prayer.  My heart beat violently when I pressed my lips to the dust reddened with the blood of the early Christians.  I begged for the grace to be a martyr for Jesus, and I felt in the depths of my heart that my prayer was heard.  All this took but a short time.  After collecting some stones we approached the walls once more to face the danger.  We were so happy that Papa had not the heart to scold us, and I could see that he was proud of our courage.

From the Coliseum we went to the Catacombs, and there Celine and I laid ourselves down in what had once been the tomb of St. Cecilia, and took some of the earth sanctified by her holy remains.  Before our journey to Rome I had not felt any special devotion to St. Cecilia, but on visiting the house where she was martyred, and hearing her proclaimed “Queen of harmony”—­because of the sweet song she sang in her heart to her Divine Spouse—­I felt more than devotion towards her, it was real love as for a friend.  She became my chosen patroness, and the keeper of all my secrets; her abandonment to God and her boundless confidence delighted me beyond measure.  They were so great that they enabled her to make souls pure which had never till then desired aught but earthly pleasures.

St. Cecilia is like the Spouse in the Canticles.  I find in her the Scriptural “choir in an armed camp."[10] Her life was one melodious song in the midst of the greatest trials; and this is not strange, because we read that “the Book of the Holy Gospels lay ever on her heart,"[11] while in her heart reposed the Spouse of Virgins.

Our visit to the Church of St. Agnes was also very delightful.  I tried, but without success, to obtain a relic to take back to my little Mother, Sister Agnes of Jesus.  Men refused me, but God Himself came to my aid:  a little bit of red marble, from an ancient mosaic dating back to the time of the sweet martyr, fell as my feet.  Was this not touching?  St. Agnes herself gave me a keepsake from her house.

We spent six days in visiting the great wonders in Rome, and on the seventh saw the greatest of all—­Leo XIII.  I longed for, yet dreaded, that day, for on it depended my vocation.  I had received no answer from the Bishop of Bayeux, and so the Holy Father’s permission was my one and only hope.  But in order to obtain this permission I had first to ask it.  The mere thought made me tremble, for I must dare speak to the Pope, and that, in presence of many Cardinals, Archbishops, and Bishops!