From Mme Martin to her brother Isidore CF 12 - March 5, 1865.

From Mme Martin to her brother

March 5, 1865

You must be very mad at me for having taken so long to respond to your letter, which, however, amused us a lot. Louis laughed with all his heart at your comparison of Father Loth. As for me, I didn’t laugh; I must be getting old and I didn’t find it amusing. Nevertheless, I comfort myself by thinking that you’re not a prophet.

I should have written to you last Sunday, but Madame X came to invite me to spend the evening at her house with my husband, which we did reluctantly and simply not to be unfriendly towards them. These are the people who attended the party: me, in the front line!, my husband, Monsieur D, a curate at the Church of Notre-Dame, a master pianist from Séez (approximately 25 kilometers north/northeast of Alençon), teacher of the young ladies, Monsieur Guérin, Sr., (Monsieur Guérin, Jr., being absent, made it necessary that his father replace him,) Madame X, her father, her daughters and her aunt, and finally, their little dog, whose name I can’t recall. They all sang from eight o’clock until a quarter to eleven, and then everyone went to bed.

Now, let’s speak of something else. For the last two months, my little Léonie has had a kind of purulent eczema on her entire body, and the illness is getting worse every day. I’m very upset, and the doctor doesn’t know how to treat it. He told me to give her some antiscorbutic syrup, which I did, but the ravages of the illness didn’t lessen. It seems that these kinds of illnesses are almost incurable. Please, give me your advice and tell me what I should do. Perhaps you know some famous specialists who will be able to give you some effective remedies. You wouldn’t believe how much I suffer seeing my poor little daughter in this state. I’ve just written to our sister Élise asking that she say a novena for her (Sister Marie-Dosithée). I’m not asking you for your prayers, I don’t have enough confidence in you.

Last Tuesday I went to see my little Hélène. I left alone at seven o’clock in the morning, through the rain and the wind that took me there and brought me back home. Imagine how tired I was as I walked along the road, but what kept me going was the thought that I would soon hold in my arms the object of my love. There’s no prettier jewel than little Hélène. She’s ravishing.

I don’t know what else to tell you. If you saw, however, the letter I wrote to my sister in Le Mans, you’d be jealous, it was five pages long. But I tell her things I don’t tell you. We talk to each other about a mysterious, angelic world, and, to you, I must speak of earthly things. Nevertheless, I know of a beautiful incident. Should I tell you? I hesitate. It’s a lost pearl. Oh well, let’s risk it.

Recently a religious of the Poor Clares was buried, and the gravedigger, while digging her grave, came across a coffin that he had broken. It belonged to a Sister who had been dead for thirty-six years, and she was perfectly preserved. In giving a blow to the coffin with the pickaxe, he cut into an arm. Blood flowed from the arm in great abundance since the earth he dug up was soaked in this blood. I didn’t see it, but I found out about it from a trustworthy person. But they don’t want these facts made known. Now believe it if you wish. As for me, I believe it as if I’d seen it, because I know that, among these nuns, there are true saints.


© Society of St. Paul / Alba House

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