ish you, but you must know that she and I were always in the habit of telling each other our very thoughts. This reciprocal confidence was so perfect that it might be truly said we concealed nothing from each other. And I must confess Victor showed himself every day more worthy of my mother's admiration. He was the most modest, amiable, industrious, and orderly of young men-a genuine model for Christian men of letters. He rose every morning at an "early hour, and worked in his room till about eight o'clock. Then, unless his occupations were too pressing, he heard Mass at a neighboring church. After that, he went to the Fournal office, where he remained till noon; then he returned to breakfast. He left again at one, came back at three, worked till dinnertime, then studied till ten at night, I "By no means, dear madame. write the leading article every day, and in a short time, too, for I have the peculiarity of not writing well when I write slowly. This done, I look over the other articles for the paper. As I am responsible for them, I do not accept them till they are carefully examined. This is my whole task-apparently an easy one, but tedious and difficult in reality." "Yes; I see you have a great deal to do at the office; but why do you continue to work at home?" "Two motives oblige me to study -to increase my knowledge, and prevent ennui. Having risen from a mere apothecary's clerk to be the chief editor of an important journal, I have to apply myself to keep apace with my new profession. A journalist must be imprudent or dishonest who discusses any subject on which he has not sufficient information. And think of the multitude of questions connected with politics, political economy, legislation, literature, and religion itself which I have in turn to treat of! In the Paris newspapers, each editor writes on the subjects he understands the best. The work is thus divided, to the great advantage of the paper and its editors. Here, I alone am often responsible for everything. Nevertheless, the care of my health, as well as my indolence, would induce me to rest a few hours a day; but where shall I pass them? -At the café? I go there sometimes to extend my knowledge of human nature; but one cannot go there much without being in danger of contracting injurious habits.-With my friends? I have none, and am in no hurry to make any. The choice of a friend is such a serious thing! One cannot be too cautious about it." "Come and see us," said my mother, with her habitual cordiality. "When you have nowhere else to go, and your mind is weary, come up and pass an hour in the evening with your neighbors." Victor came, at first occasionally, then every day. then every day. Only a few weeks elapsed before I felt that I loved him. His companionship was so delightful; he had so much delicacy in little things; he was so frank, so devoted to all that is beautiful and good! Did he love me in return? No one could have told, for he was as timid as a young girl. But this timidity was surmounted when my feast-day arrived. He came in blushing with extreme embarrassment-poor dear friend! I can still see him-holding a bouquet in his left hand, which he concealed behind him, while with the other he presented my mother with an open paper. She took it, glanced at it, and, after reading a few words, said: But this is not addressed to me. Here, Agnes, these stanzas are for you, my child! And I see a bouquet!" Victor presented it to me in an agitated manner. I myself was so confused that I longed to run away to hide my embarrassment. I concealed it as well as I could behind the sheet on which the stanzas were written, and read them in a low tone. They gracefully thanked my mother for all her kindness to him, and ended with some wishes for me-wishes that were ardent and touching. In a tremulous tone I expressed my grati tude with a sincerity which was quite natural. Our embarrassment was not of long continuance. It soon passed off, and we spent the evening in delightful conversation. One would have thought we had al ways lived together, and formed but one family. The next morning, when I returned from giving my lessons, what was my astonishment to find Victor with my mother! "Here she is to decide the question," exclaimed the latter joyfully. "M. Victor loves you, and wishes to know if you will be his wife." "Mother," I replied, "must I be separated from you?" "Less than ever," cried Victor. My delightful dream was realized! I was to be united to the man I loved with all my heart-whom I esteemed without any alloy! And this without being obliged to separate from her of whom I was the sole reliance. I extended my hand to Victor, and threw myself into my mother's arms, thanking her as well as I could, but in accents broken by tears. . . . A month after, we were married, and happy-as happy, I believe, as people can be here below. CHAPTER IV. SAD PRESENTIMENTS. THENCEFORTH began a life so sweet that I am unable to describe it. Victor and I lived in the most delightful harmony. Our love for each other increased daily. We had but one heart and one soul. Our very tastes accorded. Oh! how charming and happy is the wedded life of two Christian souls! What mutual sympathy! How they divine each other's thoughts! How readily they make the concessions at times so necessary, for the best matched people in this world do not always agree! A life more simple than ours cannot be imagined, and yet it was so sweet! 1 worked beside Victor in the morning and during a part of the afternoon, looking at him from time to time, saying a few words, or listening as he read what he had just composed. He said he first tried the effect of his writings on me. How happy I was when he thus gave me the first taste of one of his spirited articles, in which he defended his principles with an ardor of conviction and a vigor of style which impressed even those who were sceptical. Before dinner we went to walk together. I persuaded Victor to devote a part of each day to physical exercise as well as mental repose. Our conversation always gave a fresh charm to these walks. And yet we did not talk much, but we infused our whole souls into a word or two, or a smile. How often I dreamed of heaven during those delicious hours! It is thus, I said to myself, the angels above hold communion with each other. They have no need of words to make themselves understood. Among the pleasant features of that period, I must not forget that of Victor's success. Before he was appointed editor, the poor paper vegetated. There were but few subscribers. No one spoke of the obscure sheet which timidly defended sound principles and true doctrines. What a sad figure it made in the presence of its contemporary, The Independent-a shameless, arrogant journal which boasted of despising all religious belief, and scoffed at the honest people foolish enough to read it! Victor had scarcely been chief editor of this despised paper three months before there was a decided change. Every day added to the list of subscribers. The Catholic Journal was spoken of on all sides. The sceptical, even, discussed it. As to The Independent, it was forced to descend into the arena. In spite of itself, it had to engage in conflict against an adversary as skilled in irony as in logic. I acknowledge I was proud of Victor's success, and, what was more, it made me happy. For a long time, young as I was, I had groaned at seeing Catholic interests so poorly defended. They were now as ably sustained as I could wish, and by the man whom I loved. All my wishes were surpassed! Nevertheless, there is no perfect happiness in this world. Even those blissful years were not exempt from sorrow. God granted me twice, with an interval of two years, the longwished-for joy of being a mother, but each time Providence only allowed its continuance a few months. My first child, a boy, died at the end of six months. The second, a daughter, was taken from me before it was a year old. You are young, my friend and cannot understand how afflicting such losses are. A mother's heart, I assure you, is broken when she sees her child taken from her, however young it may be. My husband himself was greatly distressed when our little boy was carried off after an illness of only a few hours. But his grief was still more profound when our little girl died. Dear child! though only nine months old, her face was full of intelligence, her eyes were expressive, and she had a wonderful way of making herself understood. She passed quietly away, softly moaning, and gazing at us with affection. Her father held her in his arms the whole time of her long agony. It seemed as if he thus hoped to retain her. She, too, was sad, I am sure. She seemed to know we were in grief, and to leave us with regret. Her sweet face only resumed its joyful expression after her soul had taken flight for heaven; then a celestial happiness beamed from her features consecrated by death. Victor stood gazing at her a long time as she lay on the bed with a crucifix in her innocent hands. His lips murmured a prayer in a low tone. It seemed to me he was addressing our angel child--begging her to pray that God would speedily call him to dwell for ever with her in his blissful presence. The thought made me shudder. It seemed as if I had at that moment an interior revelation. I knew that was Victor's prayer, and I had a presentiment it would be heard. From that day, though we had a thousand reasons to consider ourselves happy, we were no longer light-hearted as we once had been. There was a something that weighed on our minds and kept us anxious, and empoisoned all our joys. Life seemed unsatisfactory, and we drew nearer to God. We were constantly speaking of him and the angel who had flown from us, and we often approached the sacraments together. It was thus that God was secretly preparing Victor to return to him, and me to endure so terrible a blow. CHAPTER V. AN UNEXPECTED ASSAULT. No man was ever more fond of domestic life than Victor. The happiest hours of the day were those we all spent together-he, my mother, my young sister, and myself-occupied in some useful work, but often stopping to exchange a few words. It was with regret Victor sometimes left us at such hours to mingle with the world. He refused all invitations to dinners, soirées, and balls as often as possible, but he could not always do so. He had taken the first place-a place quite exceptional -in local journalism, and it was impossible for him to decline all the advances made him. Besides, he wished, as was natural to one of his profession, to ascertain for himself public opinion on the question of the day. I cannot tell you how dull the evenings seemed when he was away, or how anxious I was till he returned. There was something dreadful about his profession. In vain he resolved to avoid personalities; they were often discovered when none had been intended. If he was fortunately able to keep within the limits he had marked out for himself, and confined himself to the defence of justice, morality, and religion, he found these three great causes had furious opponents. Whoever defended them incurred the ardent ill-will of the enemies of all good. This is what happened to Victor. Their secret hatred burst forth on an occasion of but little importance. worthy in every respect of his reputation, came to preach at the cathedral during Advent. This man, as eloquent as he was good, attacked the vices of the day with all the ardor of an apostle. Many of the young men of the place who went to hear him were infuriated at the boldness of his zeal. Some supposed themselves to be meant in the portraits he drew of vicious men in a manner so forcible and with such striking imagery as to make his hearers tremble. At the close of one of these sermons, there was some disturbance in the body of the church. Threats were uttered aloud, and women treated with insult. Victor, indignant at such conduct, had the courage to rebuke the corrupt young men of the place. Never had he been more happily inspired, and never had he produced such an effect. The article was everywhere read. It gave offence, and we awaited the consequences. The next day Victor received an invitation to a large ball given by a wealthy banker. The invitation surprised him, for he knew the banker was a liberal with but little sympathy for the priesthood and its defenders. I begged Victor to decline the invitation politely. I feared it was only a pretext to offer him some affront. He gently reassured me by saying that, though M. Beauvais was a liberal, he had the reputation of being an honorable man. "I am glad," added A renowned preacher of the South, he, "to become acquainted with those who frequent the banker's salon. I shall probably find more than one Christian among them," as, in fact, often happened. When the night came, Victor went away, leaving me quite uneasy, in spite of all his efforts to reassure me. I made him promise to return at an early hour. I was beginning to be anxious towards eleven, when all at once there was a sound of hasty footsteps. I sprang to the door-I opened it-it was he. As soon as he entered the room, I noticed he was extremely pale. He vainly endeavored to appear calm, but could not conceal the agitation that overpowered him. "Victor," I cried, "something has happened!" "Yes, but not much. Somebody tried to frighten me." "Are you wounded ?" No, they did not wish to take my life." wished. The same voice continued in these terms: 'How much do those calotins give you to defend them ?' "I have only one word to say in reply to your insulting question-I defend my own principles, above all because I cherish them in the depths of my soul.' So saying, I sought to keep on my way. 'Be "One of them detained me. fore going any further,' said he who seemed to be the spokesman, 'swear never to abuse the young men of this town again!' "I attack no one individually,' I replied. 'Am I forbidden to defend my own cause because it is not yours?-But this is no time or place. for such an interview. It should be at my office and by daylight. Come to see me to-morrow, and I will answer your questions.' "The three men were so wrapped up in their bernouses and large com"I conjure you to tell me frankly forters that I could not tell who they what has happened." "Well, here are the facts: I had left M. Beauvais' house, where I was politely received, and had gone two streets, when I observed three men walking swiftly after me on the Place. They seemed well dressed, which removed my suspicions. I turned into the little Rue St. Augustine. It is dimly lighted in the evening and almost always deserted." "How imprudent!" I "That is true. I did wrong. had scarcely gone a hundred yards, before the three men overtook me." "Stop!' exclaimed one of them. I stopped to ascertain what they were. I thought it time to disengage myself from the grasp of the one that held me. I made a violent effort. In the struggle, my cloak fell off. As I stooped to pick it up, I received several blows. I then called for assistance. Several windows in the neighborhood opened. The three cowards disappeared. As you see, I am neither killed nor wounded. On the whole, no great harm has been done." My whole frame trembled during this account. When it was ended, I became somewhat calmer, and, passionately throwing my arms around Victor, I begged him to promise me solemnly never to go out again in the evening. He did so willingly. CHAPTER VI. VICTOR AT THE POINT OF DEATH. THE next morning Victor told me he did not feel any effect from what had occurred. He therefore went to the office as usual, and wrote a |