CHAPTER II: A CATHOLIC HOUSEHOLD
All the details of my Mother’s illness are still fresh in my mind.
Every morning a friend came to fetch
us, and we spent the day with her. Once, we had not had time to
say our prayers before starting, and on the way my little sister
whispered: “Must we tell her that we have not said our prayers?”
“Yes,” I answered. So, very timidly, Céline confided our secret to
her, and she exclaimed: “Well, well, children, you shall say
them.” Then she took us to a large room, and left us there. Céline
looked at me in amazement. I was equally astonished, and
exclaimed: “This is not like Mamma, she always said our prayers
with us.” During the day, in spite of all efforts to amuse us, the
thought of our dear Mother was constantly in our minds. I remember
once, when my sister had an apricot given to her, she leant
towards me and said: “We will not eat it, I will give it to
Mamma.” Alas! our beloved Mother was now too ill to eat any
earthly fruit; she would never more be satisfied but by the glory
of Heaven. There she would drink of the mysterious wine which
Jesus, at His Last Supper, promised to share with us in the
Kingdom of His Father.
The touching ceremony of Extreme Unction made a deep impression on
me. I can still see the place where I knelt, and hear my poor
Father’s sobs.
My dear Mother died on August 28, 1877, in her forty-sixth year.
The day after her death my Father took me in his arms and said:
“Come and kiss your dear Mother for the last time.” Without saying
a word I put my lips to her icy forehead. I do not remember having
cried much, and I did not talk to anyone of all that filled my
heart; I looked and listened in silence, and I saw many things
they would have hidden from me. Once I found myself close to the
coffin in the passage. I stood looking at it for a long time; I
had never seen one before, but I knew what it was. I was so small
that I had to lift up my head to see its whole length, and it
seemed to me very big and very sad.
Fifteen years later I was again standing by another coffin, that
of our holy Mother Genevieve,[1] and I was carried back to the
days of my childhood. Memories crowded upon me; it was the same
little Thérèse who looked at it, but she had grown, and the coffin
seemed small. She had not to lift up her head to it, now she only
raised her eyes to contemplate Heaven which seemed to her very
full of joy, for trials had matured and strengthened her soul, so
that nothing on earth could make her grieve.
Our Lord did not leave me wholly an orphan; on the day of my
Mother’s funeral He gave me another mother, and allowed me to
choose her freely. We were all five together, looking at one
another sadly, when our nurse, overcome with emotion, said,
turning to Céline and to me: “Poor little dears, you no longer
have a Mother.” Then Céline threw herself into Marie’s arms,
crying: “Well, you will be my Mother now.” I was so accustomed to
imitate Céline that I should undoubtedly have followed her
example,