[2] Imitation of Christ, III, xxiv. 2.

[3] Isa. 65:15.

[4] Apoc. 2:17.

[5] 1 Cor. 4:5.

[6] Matt. 5:13.

[7] Tit. 1:15.

[8] Montmartre—­the “Mount of Martyrs”—­is the hill whereon St. Denis, apostle and bishop of Paris, was martyred with his two companions in the third century.  It was a famous place of pilgrimage in medieval times, and here St. Ignatius and the first Jesuits took their vows.  Under the presidency of Marshal MacMahon, the erection of the well-known Basilica was voted in 1873 by the French Chamber of Deputies as a national act of reparation to the Sacred Heart. [Ed.]

[9] Cemetery.

[10] Cf.  Cant. 7:1.

[11] Office of St. Cecilia.

[12] Luke 12:32.

[13] Luke 22:29.

[14] Cf.  Matt. 20:22.

[15] Luke 24:26.

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CHAPTER VII THE LITTLE FLOWER ENTERS THE CARMEL

Monday, April 9, 1888, being the Feast of the Annunciation, transferred from Passiontide, was the day chosen for me to enter the Carmel.  On the evening before, we were gathered around the table where I was to take my place for the last time.  These farewells are in themselves heartrending, and just when I would have liked to be forgotten I received the tenderest expressions of affection, as if to increase the pain of parting.

The next morning, after a last look at the happy home of my childhood, I set out for the Carmel, where we all heard Mass.  At the moment of Communion, when Jesus had entered our hearts, I heard sobs on all sides.  I did not shed a tear, but as I led the way to the cloister door my heart beat so violently that I wondered if I were going to die.  Oh, the agony of that moment!  One must have experienced it in order to understand.  I embraced all my dear ones and knelt for my Father’s blessing.  He, too, knelt down and blessed me through his tears.  It was a sight to gladden the Angels, this old man giving his child to God while she was yet in the springtime of life.  At length the doors of the Carmel closed upon me. . . .  I found a welcome in your arms, dear Mother, and received the embraces of another family, whose devotedness and love is not dreamt of by the outside world.

At last my desires were realised, and I cannot describe the deep sweet peace which filled my soul.  This peace has remained with me during the eight and a half years of my life here, and has never left me even amid the greatest trials.

Everything in the Convent delighted me, especially our little cell.[1] I fancied myself transported to the desert.  I repeat that my happiness was calm and peaceful—­not even the lightest breeze ruffled the tranquil waters on which my little barque sailed; no cloud darkened the blue sky.  I felt fully recompensed for all I had gone through, and I kept saying:  “Now I am here for ever.”  Mine was no passing joy, it did not fade like first illusions.  From illusions God in His Mercy has ever preserved me.  I found the religious life just what I expected, and sacrifice was never a matter of surprise.  Yet you know well that from the beginning my ways was strewn with thorns rather than with roses.