Berlin, March 1821
A WOMAN climbed before me up a dark, steep staircase, holding a labeled key in her hand; a Savoyard followed behind me, carrying my little trunk. On the third floor, the woman unlocked the door to a room; the Savoyard balanced the trunk across the arms of a chair.
“Does Monsieur need anything else?” asked the chambermaid.
“No,” I replied.
There were three sharp blasts from a whistle; the chambermaid shouted, “Coming!” and turned brusquely, closed the door, and crashed down the stairs together with the Savoyard. Finding myself shut up alone in my room, my heart was gripped by such strange qualms that I nearly took the road back to Brittany. Everything I had ever heard said of Paris flooded into my mind, and I felt embarrassed in a hundred ways. I would have liked to go to bed, but the bed was not made; I was famished, but I had no idea how to set about dining. I feared committing some impropriety. Should I call for the hotel’s service? Should I go downstairs? How would I know whom to speak to? I took the liberty of sticking my head out the window: I could see nothing but a small interior courtyard as deep as a well, where people passed to and fro who would never in their lives give a thought to the prisoner on the third floor. I went and sat down again, next to the dirty alcove where I would have to sleep, reduced to contemplating the figures on the wallpaper. Then a sound of distant voices drifted toward me, swelled, approached. My door burst open and in came my brother and one of my cousins, Moreau, the son of my mother’s sister, who had made a rather poor marriage. So Madame Rose had taken pity on her simpleton after all! She had sent word to my brother, whose address she had learned in Rennes, that I had arrived in Paris. My brother embraced me. My cousin stood by: a big fat man, whose clothes were always stained with snuff, Moreau ate like an ogre, talked unremittingly, and was always pacing, panting, choking, with his mouth half open and his tongue half out; he knew everyone on earth and lived out his life in gambling halls, waiting rooms, and parlors.
“Well, Chevalier,” my cousin said, “here you are in Paris. I am going to take you to see Madame de Chastenay.”
Who was this woman whose name I was hearing for the first time? My cousin’s proposition turned me against him.
“The Chevalier is no doubt in need of a rest,” my brother said. “We’ll go see Madame de Farcy, and then he’ll come back here for his dinner and go to bed.”
A feeling of joy washed over me. In this indifferent world, the memory of my family was a balm. We went out. Cousin Moreau raised a stink about the dreadful room I had been given and admonished my host to bring me down at least one floor. Then we got into my brother’s carriage and drove to the convent where Madame de Farcy was living.
Julie had already been in Paris for some time, to consult with physicians. Her charming face, elegance, and wit had soon made her the center of attention. I have already said that she was born with a true talent for poetry. She became a saint, after having been one of the most attractive women of her century. The Abbé Carron has written her life. These apostles who go everywhere in search of souls feel the same love for them that a Father of the Church attributes to the Creator: “When a soul arrives in Heaven,” says this Father, with the simpleheartedness of an early Christian, and the naiveté of the Greeks, “God takes them on his knee and calls her his daughter.”
Lucile has left a poignant lamentation: “For the Sister I Have Lost.” Abbé Carron’s admiration for Julie explains and justifies Julie’s words. The holy priest’s account also goes to show that I spoke truth in my preface to The Genius of Christianity and serves as proof of some portions of my Memoirs.
Innocent Julie delivered herself into the hands of repentance; she dedicated the riches won from her austerities to the redemption of her brothers; and, following the illustrious example of the African woman who was her patron saint, she became a martyr.
Abbé Carron, my countryman and the author of The Life of the Just, is that priest—that Francis of Paola of the exiles—whose reputation, broadcast by the afflicted, pierced even the reputation of Bonaparte. The voice of this poor banished clergyman was not stifled by the resounding ruckus of a revolution that overturned society. He seemed to have returned from foreign lands expressly to write an account of my sister’s virtues: he searched among our ruins, and he discovered a victim and her forgotten grave.
When this hagiographer describes Julie’s religious cruelties, one thinks of Bossuet’s sermon on Mademoiselle de la Vallière’s profession of faith:
Will she dare to touch that body so tender, so cherished, so well treated? Will there be no pity for this delicate complexion? On the contrary! It is principally to this that the soul imputes its most dangerous temptations; she sets bounds for herself: closed in upon all quarters, she can no longer breathe except on the side of Heaven.
I still cannot rid myself of a certain bewilderment on discovering my name in the last lines written by Julie’s venerable chronicler. Why should my weaknesses be compared with her sublime perfections? Have I adhered to all that my sister’s note made me promise since I received it during my exile in London? Is a book enough for God? And has my life really been lived in accordance with The Genius of Christianity? What does it matter if I have traced more or less brilliant images of religion if my passions cast a shadow on my faith! I have not gone very far; I have not shouldered the hair shirt: this tunic of my viaticum would have drunk up and dried all my sweat. A weary traveler, I have sat down by the wayside; but weary or not, I must get up again and go where my sister has already gone.
Julie’s glory lacks for nothing: Abbé Carron has written her life, and Lucile has mourned her death.